HurtComfort Bingo 2018
by Pericula Ludus
Summary: Fills for these prompts: - Surgery - Strapped to a moving vehicle - Drowing - Heat exhaustion - Homesickness - Secret allies - Blood loss - Stockholm syndrome - Panic attacks - Self-harm - Apocalypse - Haunted - Kidnapping - Toothache - Fall from grace - Insomnia - Asking for help - Pneumonia - Undeserved reputation - Scars - Loss of hearing - Bruises - Branding - Hospital stay
1. Haunted

**Haunted**

„Where are the musketeers?"

The boy stared at Tréville for a moment, then turned heel and ran into the closest house, slamming and barring the door behind him.

"Oi, you there!" Tréville hollered at a man further down the road. He spurred on his tired horse, but the man disappeared before he could reach him.

Tréville stopped in the village square in front of a squat little church. He could see curtains moving, shadowy figures lurking just out of sight. Tréville cursed and dismounted. He knew his men were here. Had been here. He had planned their route with Lazare, knew the villages they would pass, but not their precise camp sites. They would have been in this area on Good Friday.

Easter. He had ridden straight through it all, shunning every mass or celebration to get to his men. He turned to the church now, but strictly for worldly matters. He'd find people there, people and information.

To his surprise, the church's heavy oak door was barred. That much for providing sanctuary to those in need. He knocked.

"Open, in the name of the King!"

He had to call twice more before there was a shuffling on the other side.

"Which king do you serve? Tell the truth, in the name of the Lord."

Tréville snorted. Had that tedious Duke gained so much influence in these parts they now called him king?

"Louis, by God's grace King of France," he answered.

"May the Lord protect him," the voice said. "What do you want?"

"Answers. Open the door so we may speak."

The voice hesitated. "Who are you, stranger?"

"Captain Tréville of the King's Musketeers."

Several gasps could be heard from within, then murmured conversation. Tréville knocked again. "I command you to open the door."

He kept hammering against the door until it was opened. He immediately put his foot into the small gap and was met with a crucifix held in a shaky hand.

"What is this nonsense?" Tréville growled, thrusting his shoulder against the door. A wide-eyed priest and a small group of terrified townsfolk cowered in the chapel, some mumbling prayers under their breath. The priest held his crucifix in front of his face. Whatever was happening here, Tréville was uninterested.

"Where are the musketeers?" he asked.

The priest looked panicked. His lips moved frantically, but without sound. Behind him, a woman burst into tears. Tréville had no time for this.

"Answer me or you will feel the wrath of the King," he barked.

"They passed through three days ago," the priest replied.

"They did not stay here?" Tréville asked against hope. He knew they didn't, there was no point to winter training if the men slept in cosy inns. A training exercise. Training…

"They rode on," the priest said "Into the woods, that's all I know, I swear in the—"

"Where?" Tréville cut him off. The priest pointed in a north-easterly direction. Towards Chambéry. Towards him. Towards her and that Spanish spy.

Tréville had already mounted his horse when the priest squeaked "Don't go. There's an evil spirit there."

"An evil spirit?" Tréville asked out of habit more than interest.

"A ghost. The ghost of a musketeer," a woman supplied. The group, emboldened by the priest's confession, stepped out into the hazy daylight.

"Wore a cloak like yours," a man added, gesturing at Tréville. "We chased him off two days ago."

"Chased him off?" Two days. A musketeer. Two days ago. Two days. According to Tréville's calculations, the message must have reached the Duke before then. He would have had time to act by then, while Tréville was still racing South from Paris, riding like a mad man, changing horses at every opportunity, resting only when he could no longer keep himself in the saddle.

"Came to haunt us, but we won't suffer spirits here. The power of our prayer drove it away. This is a God-fearing village, Monsieur," the priest said.

Tréville pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a frustrated sigh. "Then why this talk of ghosts?"

"You should have seen him. His cloak was in tatters and his face, his face…"

"It was very ghostly," a young woman added. "Full of blood and his eyes… he had the Devil in his eyes."

They all crossed themselves.

"And his horse, black as death, smoke from its nostrils and all."

"The Devil's beast for sure."

"He's cursed to walk the earth for all eternity."

"He wants revenge, I tell you."

Revenge. The word made Tréville shudder. His horse snorted, sensing his agitation. The cacophony of voices grew louder, the villagers clambering to tell Tréville their version of the fantastical tale. They were elbowing each other in their eagerness to get closer, one shouting over the other.

Tréville had heard enough of their idiotic superstition and spurred his horse on in the direction the priest had indicated. He had barely eaten since he left Paris, but now that he was so close to his destination, he felt bile rising in his throat. Paris seemed far away from here.

It had been a simple enough plan. An operation to extract a Spanish spy and protect the Duchess. The Cardinal had his own men in Savoy, but with the musketeers so close to the border, it was only natural to request their assistance. Assistance. Tréville huffed out a humourless laugh. Richelieu had not revealed the recipient of the message containing the musketeers' route until the next day. Not one of his men, but the Duke of Savoy. And with it the news of a fictitious plan of regicide.

God only knew how Savoy would react to that. Had reacted to it when he received the message.

Tréville gritted his teeth. It was ominous that he had not met a single musketeer on the road. Certainly, Lazare had sent out a messenger to alert the garrison of any assault. No injured men in the village either. It boded ill. Had they all been captured? Dragged away to Chambéry to be tortured for information they could not possibly confess?

Every step of his horse brought him closer to an answer.

The comfortable heated room at the palace where he had made his decision seemed another world from the cold, misty forest in which his men… He couldn't allow himself to think that to its conclusion. He didn't know. Not yet.

Yet every step of his horse brought him closer.

The first sign were the crows. Great big birds circling overhead, their rough caws cleaving the wintery silence.

Tréville reached a small clearing.

He saw them then and had his certainty. The men had made camp here, tents nestled between winter-barren trees. The remnants of a cooking fire, pot askew now, embers long since doused by wind and snow.

The crows rose in a mad flutter of wings as he approached. Their cawing echoed in his ears as he sank to his knees, forfeiting his fight against the bile. His men. His men were spent. He had killed them all.

Next to him lay Dassault on his back in nothing but his linens, eyes closed as if asleep on the frozen ground. His bloodless sword had dropped from numb fingers, a dark stain blooming on his chest.

Brothers Nicolas and Guillaume had been slain as they slept, tent and throats slashed. A few feet away, young Gilles was nearly torn in two by a cruel stomach wound, his pistol still loaded in his frozen hand. He had only received his commission a few short months ago. The celebration had been large, a testament to how well-liked the determined lad was among his regiment. How much he would be missed.

Laurent's dark skin seemed grey in death. Tréville trusted all his men with his life, but Laurent… quiet and reliable, in charge of the armoury since the beginning, he had been a pillar of the garrison. He had the respect of the men and Tréville knew how hard it was for some to give that to a black man, musketeer or not. Tréville sighed as he uselessly tried to brush dried blood from Laurent's lips. Maybe his example had at least made it easier for those who followed.

Lazare, in charge of these men, had at least managed to don his full uniform. Tréville carefully closed the eyes of his second in command. He should have led these men himself, should have died with them. Only there would have been no death without him in Paris to betray his regiment. He gave up the location of his men for the sake of France. Sacrificed them under instruction of their King, but… It was still Tréville who killed them.

He walked in slow, slow circles around their fire, dragging his feet through the bloody snow. There were no enemy bodies anywhere. Tréville balled his fists. They must have been utterly overwhelmed, the Duke reacting with excessive force to the unfounded accusations.

It had been quick. Most had died in their tents or right in front of them. Only a few had reached the paltry cover of the trees. Hubert and Marin, clearly on guard duty that night, lay further away. Only two of them, only two guards. There should have been more. They should have been… prepared somehow. Prepared for what? The treachery of their captain? They were on a training exercise, in the border region between France and one of its closest allies. There was no reason to be on their guard. They were safe, safe but for the dagger in the back, the dagger he himself had wielded.

He spent some time with each of his men, scouring his mind for the right words to apologise, but unable to think any further than the confession he knew he must never make. He yearned for the confessional, for the penance, the forgiveness, and yet he knew it would not come. He had killed them his men. The Cardinal added his own vitriol, but Tréville delivered the fatal blow when he betrayed their location, this location. He would find no absolution.

In the end, he merely said their names, one after the other. He did not avert his eyes, no matter how gruesome their injuries. He owed them that. Twenty-two men. Twenty-two lives cut short.

A crow settled onto poor Gilles' chest. Tréville tried to shoo it away, but it would not budge. It turned to face him and Tréville jumped. The bird had eyes as white as the snow around it. Dead eyes, the Devil's eyes. Tréville turned his back to it, watching its companions flutter from one body to the next and realised that he had been reduced to this. A helpless captain, unable to protect his men, not even from the carrion birds.

He knelt long with the young Breton his men had nicknamed Corsair. He'd had high hopes for him. Skills learned on the streets and ships of the notorious pirate harbour of Saint-Malo were complemented by an eager mind and a natural talent for command. Tréville plucked at the crude bandage tied around a wound on Corsair's upper arm. A man to maybe, one day, lead his musketeers into battle. A dead man, now.

Tréville paused. Why the bandage? How? Looking around, he noticed several other men also sporting bandages. Strips of linen torn from shirts and cloaks, hurriedly tied around their wounds. Which meant… No. He shouldn't get his hopes up. His men were dead. He'd killed them all. But someone must have applied those bandages. The villagers? Unlikely, given their pathetic display and their fear of some ghost. A ghost. The ghost of a musketeer. A ghost, or maybe a musketeer? A musketeer who lived and tried to aid his brothers?

With renewed energy, Tréville rose to his feet. Not everyone was dead, or at least not everyone had been killed in the initial assault. There was some hope, however slim, that there was a survivor. And he would cling to that.

He resumed his slow circling around the camp site. The further he walked, the more daring the crows became, settling back onto the bodies of his men, pecking at defenceless faces.

Eventually, he had to admit defeat. There were no signs of battle this far from the campsite. No sign of any survivor either. The tracks of the Savoyan riders showed that they had circled the camp and then retreated towards the border. Where he was searching, nothing seemed to have been disturbed, no branches shattered by a stray bullet, no scattered debris of the fight. The snow cover was not consistent enough to track the horses that had run off into the forest, but he was certain he had searched the expanse of the fight. No sign of a man who still drew breath.

In a day or two, his men would be here, trusted soldiers he had sent for after his hasty departure from Paris. Soldiers who would see to their dead brothers. Tréville wanted to spare them that sight, but did not think he could. He was weak, unable to dig the graves in the frozen earth. He was a coward, unable to face the horror he created. He could barely move one of the stiff and frozen body, much less twenty-two.

Twenty-one maybe. That stubborn little hope still clung to life. Those bandages… someone must have applied them.

He counted the bodies, slowly, one after the other. So, so many lay dead.

Twenty.

He counted again.

Twenty dead men.

Twenty, not twenty-two.

Two men were missing.

"Marsac," Tréville breathed, clutching his heart. "Marsac and Aramis. The inseparables."

Two young men with confidence bordering on arrogance, and good reasons to be proud of their fighting prowess and achievements.

Two halves of a whole, very seldom found apart, encouraging each other to the point of obnoxiousness with their shows of skill as well as their endless womanising.

Two musketeers he had praised more than most; he had chuckled at their antics, and hailed them as examples for recruits.

Two brothers who would not abandon each other no matter the cost.

Two inseparables who had weathered this storm together, who had survived, who had somehow escaped the slaughter.

They lived and maybe Tréville would be able to live with himself, with his deeds and his decisions, as long as those two still breathed.

There was nothing to be done in the forest, nothing he could do to help those poor men. But he could still do something for the survivors, for Marsac and Aramis. He urged his horse on, back to the village. A ghost; such ignorance. No ghost, but a musketeer, not one, but two. Because he knew those two would stick together.

The ignorant villagers insisted that there had been only one ghost and one horse, but Tréville knew better. At least they could point him in the direction their ghost had walked. He would bring down the full wrath of the musketeers onto the cretins who had denied help to his men.

Tréville rode slowly along the deserted road, bent low over his horse's neck. The mist grew denser and he could not see more than a few yards ahead. The frozen ground was too hard to hold any tracks he could follow. He wrapped his cloak around his body and tried to penetrate the fog with his eyes, unwilling to miss a sign, however small. He could not bear the thought of his two musketeers, injured and cold, in a ditch by the side of the road, silently watching him ride past. He would find them. He would save them. He would not fail them again.

Two days since they had come this way, two days in the cold. Had they reached another village, the next town? Had they found assistance anywhere? Or had they been left to their own devices? Aramis was an excellent medic, but what could he do here? How badly injured was he himself?

A hare darted out of the undergrowth, startling him from his ruminations. The horse shied back, stomping restlessly. Tréville fought to bring his mount back under control. For a moment they stood still. Tréville stroked the horse's neck and shushed it. Just a hare. No new horror. While he did so, his eyes roamed and caught on the slightest hint of blue. Musketeers blue. A strip of a cloak caught—no tied to a branch. It hung on a thorny bush to the right of the road. Tréville scanned the area and detected a faint path leading off through the bushes towards the ruins of a farmhouse.

He ran his fingers over the piece of cloth, made to untie it, then stopped himself. If it was a sign, he should leave it. He did not know who was intended to find it. Marsac? Aramis? Had they split up? Had one left the other in the ruin? Or was it a signal to keep to the road? He hesitated and peered uncertainly into the mist.

The farmhouse first, he decided. It would be quick to search and then he could continue on his way. Or stay there with one or both of his musketeers. He led his horse down the overgrown path, carefully picking his way through the thicket. He could see no blood on the ground, which heartened him greatly, but somebody had certainly been here recently, trampling twigs as they went.

The house itself was utterly abandoned, remnants of a door hanging crookedly in its frame, the roof half collapsed. The outer wall of the stables had a large hole, stones crumbling where plants had sprung up between them. Tréville tied his horse outside and started his search in the stables.

The rotting leaves of the previous autumn had gathered in a corner, but there was no sign of any furnishings. Anything useful had probably been taken long ago. A narrow door led him into the main house, the low, dark building typical for tenant farmers. There was ash in the fireplace and signs of an abandoned camp, but it was impossible to tell how long ago anyone had passed through. It might have been days, but it could as well have been months. A smaller sleeping chamber branched off from the main room. Its only window was high up and covered by a sackcloth. When Tréville stooped in the low doorway, the room was nearly completely dark. In the far corner, he could discern a bundle of dirty rags left behind by some vagrant or traveller. He turned back and continued his search in the smaller outbuildings.

He found no evidence of his missing musketeers.

The blue cloth had not been a sign then, or at least not a sign to search here. He would press onwards until nightfall if necessary. Marsac and Aramis were still out there.

He would not fail his men again.

He would find them and bring them home.

He scrubbed a hand across his face as he exited the last shed. His head throbbed and his eyes stung, but there was no time to be wasted.

He instinctively drew his sword when he noticed a second horse next to his own. He lingered for a moment, keeping the shed at his back, scanning the area. A horse, but no trace of its owner. Initial tension ebbing away, he took a step towards the black mare. She danced away from him and snorted in agitation. She bore no saddle, only a light halter. Her coat was caked in mud. Twigs and dry leaves were tangled in her mane and tail. She was nervous, but still sought contact with him. Tréville gently stroked her muzzle and explored the dark patches on her neck. Some looked suspiciously like blood, but she seemed uninjured. Looking at her more closely, he suddenly froze.

He knew her.

She was Aramis' horse.

She picked up on his anxiety immediately, pulling away from him.

"What happened to you, girl?" Tréville asked, trying to keep his voice low and even. "Did you run away? Were you scared that night? And now you came to me? You here to help me find your master? Good girl, good girl…"

He slowly moved towards his saddle bags. If he could fetch a length of rope, he'd be able to lead her, to take her with him on his search. She was anxious at the best of times, rarely letting anyone but Aramis touch her, utterly devoted to him. Tréville had never truly asked how those two had come to be together, but he doubted that Aramis would have been able to afford a horse like her. He moved slowly and kept up a steady stream of reassurances.

Eventually he managed to tie some rope to her halter, but as he made to mount his horse, she pulled sharply, refusing to be moved. Tréville understood she had seen horrible things. He had seen the bodies of the horses next to the men, struck by stray bullets in the dark. The animal had his sympathy, but he needed to move on. Instead he found himself being dragged towards the farmhouse by the mare. No matter what he said, he could not get her to calm down.

"Are you showing me something?" he asked. She snorted, as if in reply. Tréville stroked her neck. "Where did you leave your master and his friend?"

He took up the rope again, hoping she might guide him towards his men, thinking they might be close, hiding somewhere in the woods or in some hut he hadn't found. But the horse wouldn't move away from the house. Tréville sighed.

"I searched in there," he said. He shook his head at his own lunacy. As if he needed to justify his actions to a horse. "Even if they were here before, they aren't now."

Nevertheless, he stepped into the ruin again. He had no other leads. He would not have missed two musketeers, but maybe another scrap of blue cloth had escaped him. He kneaded his forehead and blinked his eyes, willing his tired mind to focus on the smallest detail. He scoured the main room but found nothing of any relevance. The remnants of a fire, various scraps and rotting leaves, a broken bottle. Nothing to indicate that anyone had been here recently.

He moved on to the bed chamber once more. Still nothing but the rags in the corner. Nothing that he could find in the gloom. Longing for some light, he ripped the cloth from the window and had another look around. He took a step back when he saw the glint of a pistol pointing at his chest.

Tréville held his breath.

The rags had shifted slightly to reveal a hand holding a pistol and part of a pale, dirty face surrounded by matted dark hair.

"Aramis," Tréville breathed, moved and relieved by the unexpected sight. Finally, he'd found one of his men alive and where Aramis was, Marsac would be as well. They were here, they were alive.

The finger on the trigger squeezed and Tréville dived to the side, knowing as he did so that it was too late. He had been too caught up in his thoughts to notice the shot in time. He waited for the noise, for the pain of the bullet hitting his body. Instead he hit the dirt floor. No sound, no pain.

No shot.

He looked over at his musketeer. Aramis sat with his knees tucked into his chest, wrapped in tattered clothes, the pistol still in his hand, his finger crooked.

He had attempted to fire an unloaded weapon, but did not appear to notice his mistake.

"Aramis," Tréville said tentatively, rising to his knees. "It's me, Tréville. Your—" He cleared his throat. "Your captain."

Aramis made no reply. He stared unblinkingly at Tréville, but did not appear to see him.

"You're safe now," Tréville tried again.

If Aramis heard him at all, he gave no indication. Tréville slowly scooted closer on his knees and reached out to take the weapon from Aramis' hand. It was too easy to remove it, Aramis' fingers simply dropping with no resistance or complaint.

As soon as Tréville had the pistol, Aramis seemed to crumble. His hand dropped limply to the floor, his head sank to his knees and he curled in on himself even further.

Tréville held his breath, afraid that Aramis had died in front of him, but in the silence he could clearly hear his breathing, weak and rasping, but undeniably there.

"Aramis," Tréville said again. He couldn't stop himself from repeating his name. The name of a survivor. The name of one who was still there, one musketeer he hadn't killed. He put a soothing hand onto the soldier's forehead, briefly registering how cold it was. The meagre shelter of the abandoned house had not done much to keep the young man warm. He brushed the hair from Aramis' face and discovered a folded rag tied around a jagged cut that meandered into his hairline. His fingers snagged in hair matted with dried blood. A head injury. It did not seem severe, but might explain Aramis' confusion.

"What have they done to you?" Tréville asked, gently tilting Aramis' head upwards. The dark eyes seemed unable to focus on him, further evidence of a head injury.

"Killed," Aramis whispered, voice hoarse.

Tréville smiled grimly, stroking Aramis' hair. "I know, son," he said. "But I found you, you're safe now. How are you?"

Aramis' eyes were floating aimlessly. "Dead," he replied.

Tréville swallowed heavily. "Not you, son, not you. You're here with me, you're alive."

He reached a hand around the back of Aramis neck, drawing closer to him. He wasn't shivering, but his skin was cold and up close it was evident that his lips were blue. Tréville shrugged out of his cloak and draped it carefully around the young soldier. Aramis let him manipulate his body, but did not move on his own. He would have dropped his head again, but Tréville kept the hold on his neck, desperate to look at his face, to see his eyes, to see that he was, indeed, alive. He hadn't killed them all.

"Where's Marsac?" Tréville asked.

Aramis made a choked noise. "Gone."

Gone to get help, Tréville's mind supplied. Couldn't move quickly with Aramis. Hid him here. But then why the sign on the road? Why draw attention to his injured brother?

"Where did he go?"

Aramis shook his head rapidly. "Gone, gone, gone," he repeated.

Tréville's mind changed track. "He's dead?"

Aramis made a high-pitched whine, like an animal in pain and tried to curl up even further. Tréville tugged at his hair. He had to know.

"Answer me!"

Aramis' face contorted in pain, his lips forming a silent scream. Tréville shook him.

"Where is Marsac?"

"Gone," Aramis whimpered. "Gone, gone, not dead, gone…"

"Did he go to get help?" Tréville pressed. "Is he coming back?"

Aramis shook his head, his whole body. "Gone," he muttered. "Marsac's gone… gone… not coming back… is gone…"

His mumbling became unintelligible.

"Aramis," Tréville breathed, drawing the young musketeer closer, wrapping him into his arms and resting his head against his chest. "Come here, son, come. I've got you. You're safe. You're safe now, son, I'm here."

He kept talking even though there was nothing to say. The safety was an illusion, and him being here, him, the one who had condemned his men do death, who had caused Aramis' injury… There was no comfort there. But there was nothing to be done about the past, nothing he could change, just Aramis, here in his arms, breathing and alive. His last hope, his only hope.

He rocked them gently back and forth, waiting for Aramis to sink into his embrace, to relax. He didn't. He did nothing to resist either, simply remained curled up and motionless and somehow very far away.

Tréville held him tighter. The minute movement of Aramis' shoulders as he breathed became a lifeline for Tréville, one that he clung to with all his might. One of them still breathed. Images of cut throats and smashed skulls danced before his eyes. Gone. All of them, except Aramis.

Tréville buried his face in Aramis' hair and cried.

They stayed like that for a long time, neither man moving a muscle. Eventually, Tréville pulled himself together and sat up straighter, jostling Aramis. The room had gone dark around them, the dim sun starting to fail. Tréville stretched his neck and rubbed circles on Aramis' shoulders.

"Better get you in the warmth somewhere," he said. "Get some food into you and I'd like a physician to look at that cut."

Aramis' shoulders rose and fell, but there was no sign that he had heard, that he did or didn't agree, no sound or movement at all. Tréville sighed, at a loss of how to get his musketeer the aid he needed. He could of course light a fire in the ruin and they would make it through the night like that, but Aramis deserved so much more. He did not wish to return to the village, for the lack of a decent inn as much as the superstitious nature of its people, but the next town was several miles away. He doubted Aramis could walk that far. Quite apart from any injuries, he probably had not eaten for days.

"What do you think," he said, pulling Aramis' head up. "As much as I want you to rest, you'd be more comfortable in a proper bed. We could reach the next town in an hour or two if you feel up to riding."

Aramis looked confused.

"Can you ride?" Tréville asked.

"Ride," Aramis repeated.

Tréville sighed and stroked his hair. "We'll see, won't we… we've got to try. Can you stand?"

"Stand."

"That's it," Tréville said, shifting onto his knees. "Try and stand for me. Stand up."

At first Aramis stared at him uncomprehendingly, but then he gave a jerky nod. "Stand."

He swayed alarmingly, but with Tréville's help, he managed to stay on his feet.

"Walk to the door."

To Tréville's surprise, Aramis followed simple instructions without complaint.

Once outside, his horse whinnied in alarm and nosed at Aramis' body. To her dismay, Aramis did not react. Tréville looked at the distressed horse and decided against attempting to make Aramis ride her. Instead he guided him to his own mount. With a bit of awkward manoeuvring, he got Aramis into the saddle. He seemed utterly unaware of where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. Even leading the horse, Tréville was afraid Aramis would fall.

Getting a better look at him now, Tréville did not notice any injuries beyond the head wound. He scrubbed a hand across his beard. He was happy, of course, that Aramis seemed to have escaped the slaughter without significant damage, but his continued silence was unnerving. He'd seen it before, after some great battles. Soldiers lost their senses, were lost to the world for hours, sometimes days at a time. Tréville almost wished there was something obvious to fix; a broken bone to set, a bleeding wound to bind, something he could actually do for his man. As it was, the only things he could think of to help him were rest and warmth and nourishment.

Mounting behind Aramis and holding him in his arms, Tréville continued to make his slow way towards the town. He still stared into the fog ahead, searching for any sign of Marsac, but none would materialise. He shifted Aramis in his arms, trying to find a more comfortable position for him. Aramis let himself be moved like a ragdoll. Tréville shuddered. No man should be so unresponsive. He pressed their bodies closer together, chasing the hint of movement that meant that Aramis was still breathing. The dead weight in his arms was too close to the weight of a dead man.

Some time later he noticed that Aramis' mare was following close behind just like the villagers had said the horse was following their ghost. Not the devil's horse after all, merely a loyal beast concerned for its master.

Not a ghost haunting a village, but a man haunted by events beyond his control, his comprehension. Events that Tréville himself had caused, that he would have to live with from now on. Nobody could give absolution. Nobody must ever know. For France's sake as much as Aramis'. The knowledge of how his brothers had died and why… Tréville feared it would break him entirely. And that could not happen.

Aramis survived and he would continue to do so. Tréville would see to that.


	2. Panic Attacks (1 of 3)

**Panic Attacks Ch 1**

Tréville was grey. Not just his travel-stained cloak, but his hair, his beard, his face. Everything about him was grey, colourless and aged. Porthos stood in the back row, the recruits naturally finding their spaces behind the commissioned musketeers as they welcomed their captain back to the garrison. He couldn't see Tréville's face well enough to be certain, but judging by the captain's slumped shoulders, Porthos imagined there'd be new and deeper lines on his face.

With Tréville came a carriage and behind the carriage rode the five musketeers called to help the captain in Savoy. They looked tired too. They herded a small group of horses. Porthos was glad to be as far away from the stomping, snorting animals as the courtyard allowed. There was a collective intake of breath as the meaning of those horses sank in. They had lost their riders. The garrison had lost musketeers. There seemed to be so many horses. So many dead men. To Porthos the horses were all the same, all big and black. He couldn't tell them apart, but around him men started to whisper names.

Tréville nodded jerkily at his assembled regiment, but did not speak. Porthos understood. There was nothing to be said. They knew everything from his message. All massacred by the Spanish, only one survivor. They had sworn revenge as soon as that short letter had been read out to the garrison, but their anger was soon squashed by the weight of their loss. So many men had been days since had been solemn, the sadness only broken when frayed tempers flared.

When Tréville stepped towards the carriage, the recruit standing next to Porthos started to whisper a fervent prayer. Porthos knew that Meunier's best friend had been at Savoy. Like Meunier, most hoped that sole survivor was a specific musketeer. With the danger of letters being intercepted, names were never committed to paper. That had left every man a shred of hope that their friend, their roommate, their brother might have survived. Porthos was no exception.

Men shifted and craned their necks as Tréville turned around. The man-sized bundle in his arms was wrapped in numerous blankets despite the warm spring air. Porthos tried to assess the bundle. Laurent was a tall man, slighter than him, but about the same height. As this man seemed to be. Porthos' heart jumped in his chest. He clutched his little pendant of Saint Jude. He promised the Lord to attend church every Sunday without fail if only the survivor was Laurent.

A hand dropped out of the blankets. A pale hand. Porthos' chest seized up.

It wasn't Laurent.

His mind went through a hundred thoughts at once. He had known, of course, that the likelihood of the survivor being Laurent was small, but to see his hope ruined so quickly… What would it mean for the future? Laurent had been a respected musketeer, in charge of the garrison's armoury, trusted by the captain and the men. And he had been a black musketeer.

Porthos gnawed on his lip. He had always been the only black man in his infantry regiment and being here with Laurent… it had been different. A friend, a mentor, an example of what he could achieve if only he worked hard enough. His stomach twisted into a knot. With Laurent by his side he had felt… safe somehow. And now? Now he was the only one. Past taunts echoed in his brain. Was there still a space here for a black recruit?

Porthos shook his head to keep himself from going down paths he might never have to tread. The men around him were similarly agitated. The figure in Tréville's arms, the arm hanging towards the ground, seemed so limp they all feared the man had died on the road. Tréville said something that Porthos was too far away to hear, but soon his words were repeated from one mouth to the other.

"He lives. It's Aramis."

Aramis.

Of all the musketeers, it had to be that arrogant sod.

Porthos grimaced, then quickly composed his features. Of course, it was good that Aramis had survived, that anyone at all had lived. But looking around, Porthos saw he wasn't the only one unhappy with the identity of the survivor. Aramis was certainly the best shot in the regiment, but he was also the best at shouting about his accomplishments. He was respected and all, but had always been closest to Marsac.

They watched Tréville climb the stairs and carry Aramis towards the room the musketeer used to share with Marsac. Within moments, the eagerly awaited survivor had disappeared from sight. The captain gave strict instructions that Aramis was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. He needed rest. For the rest of the day, the only sign of Aramis' presence was the hurriedly summoned physician being shown to the room by Tréville himself.

That night the other recruits Porthos shared a room with stayed awake long after dark, talking about the events of the day. They didn't ask him for his opinion and Porthos didn't offer it. His mind dwelled on thoughts of Laurent, less concerned with the wider politics of it all. He clutched Saint Jude and buried his face in his pillows so nobody could mock his tears as he tried and failed to pray. He fell asleep listening to his companions speculating about how the Spanish had managed to best the musketeers and plotting their revenge.

"We're under attack!"

Porthos' eyes flew open at the shout. He scrambled for his weapons and ran outside wearing nothing but his braies, followed by his roommates. In the courtyard, they joined other men, some in their shirtsleeves, almost all barefoot, but every one of them armed and scanning the garrison for intruders.

They could all hear the screams, loud and long and terrible. A man in agony. Porthos was among the first to locate their source. Taking two, three steps at a time, he bolted up the stairs, then raced along the balcony towards Aramis' and Marsac's room.

"Stop!"

Porthos bumped into the man in front of him and was jostled from behind as they all came to a halt. Facing them was the tall figure of Bernard.

"What's going on?" somebody shouted from the back. The screaming continued.

Bernard sighed and brushed his fingers through his long blond hair. He had been one of the men sent to Savoy and in the dim light he looked to have aged as much as the captain.

"It's Aramis," he said.

That got the men talking.

"What are they doing to him?"

"Who's doing it?"

"It's the Spanish, I say."

"How would they get in?"

"They want to finish him off…"

Everyone had a question, an opinion.

Bernard shook his head and held up a hand to stop the clamour. "He has… dreams," he said.

That silenced the men. Aramis was still howling in pain.

"Dreams… like that?" someone asked.

Bernard nodded miserably. "It's Savoy. He sees… things…" he broke off. "The captain is with him now. Please…"

He gestured for them to retreat and slowly ushered the grumbling men back down the stairs. The majority of them took up a vigil in the courtyard, listening to their tortured comrade's screams. The captain's presence seemed to do Aramis no good at all, as far as Porthos was concerned. Certainly explained Tréville's tiredness though.

Porthos knew battle dreams, of course. In the garrison, there were a few experienced soldiers who would wake up screaming in the night, remembering some experience from long ago. Many, like Porthos, had also seen it happen in the field with their previous regiments. But this… this was extreme. Aramis never seemed to wake from the horror, never understood that he was safe now. If what happened down there in Savoy could make a man scream like that… it was a horrifying thought.

It didn't get any better. Over the following days, an endless stream of physicians visited Aramis, but none of them had a cure. The screaming continued night after night, only subsiding when Aramis' voice broke.

Porthos, once he knew there was no imminent danger, slept soundly. Others started to spend their nights elsewhere and those who remained in the garrison became tetchy with lack of sleep.

Tréville continued to sit with Aramis every night, which made no difference to the screaming, but seemed to give the captain something to do for his injured musketeer. It was clear to Porthos that Tréville was desperate to do anything he could to help Aramis recover. As always, Aramis was the centre of attention. Serge bringing him his meals three times a day, Tréville summoning every doctor in Paris, and the whole garrison constantly reminded of his struggles despite never seeing him once.

By day, Tréville worked hard to fix the other ramifications of Savoy. He spent endless hours at court, in conference with the King and Cardinal, plotting their revenge on the Spanish. When he was at the garrison, he undertook a relentless recruitment drive to boost the numbers of the regiment after their great loss.

This concerned Porthos. Every day, young, talented men joined the musketeers. White men. And while Tréville had never made him feel any less because of the colour of his skin, Porthos knew that others felt differently, even among the musketeers. He had never expected to be accepted into the garrison, but now that he was a recruit, he wanted that commission. And he saw his chances of receiving it slipping away with each new recruit.

Porthos was in an awkward position, not one of the new recruits, but not one of the established men either. He had been the last to join the regiment before Savoy. He was not required in the basic training sessions, but he was not yet qualified for all duties either. With Laurent dead and Tréville otherwise occupied, there was little guidance on what he should be doing.

As a result, Porthos spent much of his time in the armoury. He wanted to contribute something to the garrison. The atmosphere was one of defiance. They kept the garrison running to show the Spanish and anyone else who doubted them that they weren't so easily cowed. They were hurting, but still fighting. Every man was doing his part to prove that. Porthos did his in the armoury. This had been Laurent's domain. Despite his death, the room still felt familiar, comfortable. Porthos took pride in polishing weapons and making everything look perfect as a tribute to Laurent, but it did not fix his problems.

He was hidden away, men stepping in and out of the room when they needed something, but rarely lingering to talk to him, to take note of what he was doing. Any hope that Tréville might notice his efforts, might even praise him for them, was in vain. All the captain cared about were politics, the new recruits, and Aramis.

After a week, Aramis was still screaming for hours every night and life in the garrison revolved solely around him. Porthos had no idea why.

Of course, Savoy had been bad, but bad things happened. That was the life of a soldier. Soldiers saw blood and death all the time. He himself had been at Montpellier in '22 when sickness ravaged the royal camp. As men died all around him, he'd cared for them and buried them. He'd piled emaciated bodies into mass graves hurriedly dug into the muddy ground. It had not been pretty, but he had made it through. Before that, he had seen many things as a child of the court, but no one heard him scream about it.

Even now, he saw so many men suffer in the aftermath of Savoy. Best friends had been lost, brothers buried far from home, leaving no space to mourn. Porthos watched men grieve every day and hid his own tears in his pillow or the dim light of the armoury. He suspected others found similar spaces for theirs. None of them made a show of their grief, none of them neglected their duties. Aramis did not have a monopoly on pain. But it was rather typical for him to wallow in it.

Porthos was not the only one to think so. While he was sitting in the mess hall, enjoying the rich stew Serge had served for dinner, he heard three of the older musketeers joke about the situation.

"You seeing the gorgeous Georgette today?"

"You bet I am. If I'm lucky, she'll let me stay the night."

"You paying Clotilde a visit, Eugène?"

"I wish. Guard duty at the gate for me."

His mates winched in sympathy.

"Your ears'll be ringing by morning."

"As will mine. I'll have Georgette screaming all night."

They laughed and patted the speaker on the back.

"Good on you, Leblanc."

"Old fox's still got it. I know how to pleasure a lady."

"Be nicer than listening to him, that's for sure."

"At least she'll have a reason to scream. Not like him."

"Oh oh oh, I'm so afraid of my pillow!"

They guffawed at that.

"Brings shame on the regiment, he does."

"He's an embarrassment, for sure."

"Wouldn't have happened if that had been Lazare."

"Or Martin."

"Even little Gilles."

"But no, had to be him. Thinks he's a man just because he can shoot."

"Showing his true colours now. Coward."

They reached the front of the queue and received their bowls of stew.

"What's that?" Leblanc asked. "You skimping on us, Serge?"

"Yeah, my bowl's half empty," Eugène added. "And where's my bread?"

"You'll get your food when you hold your damn tongues," the old cook replied.

"What, now? When have I ever said anything bad about your cooking?"

"Not my cooking, I'm worried about," Serge growled.

"Give us our food then. How's a man supposed to keep up strength on half rations?"

Serge drew himself up to his full height. "You be glad I'm feeding you lot at all. What you said 'bout Aramis, the captain'd have you whipped."

"You threatening us, old man?"

Serge gripped his ladle tighter and glared at Leblanc. "I'll threaten you alright if I ever hear that sort of talk again."

"What? We said nothing that's not true. He's making us the laughing stock of Paris. A musketeer, scared by night terrors, pah!"

"That's no way to speak of an injured brother."

"Injured, is he? Seems to me he's just insane."

"Out!" Serge shouted. "Get out of my sight, you!"

Silence had fallen and men shifted uncomfortably on their seats. They all liked and respected Serge. Porthos found it telling that nobody had gotten up to defend him in this. They would not say it in so many words, but many probably agreed, at least in parts. Porthos certainly did.

Eugène turned to look around the room before leaving with his friends. "Ask yourself though," he said to the men. "How come he survived? Him with his Spanish and all…"

There was some low mumbling when the door closed behind them, but nobody spoke up for or against Aramis. Porthos frowned. He couldn't believe that anyone honestly thought Aramis was in with the Spanish, but who was he to know? None of them had seen Aramis since he arrived.

They finished their meal quickly and in silence and when Porthos looked up again, he found he was the only one left in the room, morosely dabbing at the last of his stew. He cleared some abandoned bowls from the tables and returned them to Serge along with his own. Usually, the old man would mutter about how he didn't have to do that, but he barely seemed to notice Porthos.

Porthos lingered, unsure of what to do. He felt for Serge, noting how tired and strung out he looked. The argument seemed to have taken its toll. Porthos felt bad for not stepping in. Not that he had any authority to do so. He was just a recruit. His presence was often enough to end a fight, but among the musketeers, nobody would be afraid to put him in his place. There wasn't much he could have done.

Serge slowly poured a mug of weak ale, a small cup of red wine, and then turned to the large pot, rooting around it with the ladle.

"The beef'd be good for him. Get his strength back," the old cook murmured. "Can't really chew though. Don't think he knows how."

"Is he…" Porthos paused. "Is there any improvement?"

Serge shrugged. "I'm no learned man, lad, not one of them doctors."

"You see him every day, though."

"Whole lotta good that does him." Serge put a spoon into the bowl and sighed. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and Porthos noticed he'd been crying.

"Is there anything…" Porthos left the question hanging, unsure what he was suggesting.

"He ain't eating. Ain't sleeping," Serge said. "Every time I go up there, I'm afraid he's died."

Serge let his head hang, shoulders hunched. Porthos took the bowl of stew from his hands. "Let me. Think you need a rest tonight."

Serge blinked at him through renewed tears. "You sure, lad?"

"Sure," Porthos said and shrugged. Wasn't like he'd be serving dinner to the king. Injured or not, Aramis was still a musketeer. And for all that he wasn't sure about going into the room of the madman, he knew Tréville would hear of this. At this point, any way to be noticed by Tréville sounded good to him.

"Don't think I should," Serge said.

"I'll be fine," Porthos assured him

Serge scratched his neck. "Suspect you can't be worse than me now..."

He nodded his head, having reached that conclusion, and handed Porthos the drinks as well. With Serge's best wishes and reminders to go slow in his ears, Porthos entered Aramis' and Marsac's room. He had never been there before. Musketeers certainly had more space to themselves than recruits. Besides the two beds and the chests for their belongings, the room contained a table and two chairs, now laden with what Porthos guessed were medicines and potions. The room even had a small fireplace and on the mantlepiece there was a collection of trinkets and five books. Porthos snorted. Trust those two to have a library like they were noblemen.

Aramis lay flat on his back, wrapped in several blankets. He gave no indication that he had heard Porthos enter, just lay motionless, eyes staring at the ceiling. It made Porthos feel odd, like he was at a dead man's wake.

He cleared his throat. "Evening," he said. "Just bringing your dinner."

He figured that should be enough. No need to give a sermon. It was all pretty simple. Aramis got his food, Serge got to calm down, Tréville got a reminder about Porthos, and Porthos got his commission.

When Aramis still didn't react, Porthos hovered uncertainly by the door. He didn't have all night and that stew would be stone cold by the time Aramis deigned to acknowledge him. He mentally braced himself for the unearthly screaming and took a tentative step forward.

No screaming. But no sign of recognition either.

"It's me, Porthos," he added when there was no reaction. "Serge sent me."

Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to come in here. Maybe Aramis' befuddled mind would think he was an attacker. Porthos looked at him intently. He couldn't see any of his body in between the pile of blankets, but he could see his face. An angry red scar snaked from the forehead into his hairline. Undoubtedly, Aramis would come up with some heroic tale about it that would have even more women fall at his feet. Not that he currently had any of his handsomeness. His long hair had been shorn, probably to treat the head wound, and was growing back in irregular little tufts of black stubble. With his bald head, Aramis reminded Porthos of a young bird fallen from the nest. The dark eyes were huge in the sunken face. He seemed utterly forlorn.

Once again, Porthos cleared his throat significantly, then he walked across the room to set the food and drinks down on a low stool close to Aramis' bed. The musketeer was still staring at the ceiling. He didn't even blink.

Porthos was starting to get nervous. If Aramis, the stupid git, had picked that very moment to die, Porthos' career with the musketeers would be over before it had even begun.

"Don't you do this to me," he murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed and rooting around the blankets for Aramis' wrist to feel for a pulse. "Not going to make me tell the captain you died on my watch."

He finally found an arm. Positioning his fingers, he looked up and found Aramis' eyes tracking his movement.

"So you are alive!" He dropped the hand and it flopped weakly onto his leg. "What's that all about?"

He felt for a pulse after all. It was undeniably there, but felt pretty weak to him.

"Right then," Porthos said. "You want your stew?"

He was somewhat reassured knowing that Aramis hadn't just croaked, but there was something unnerving about this living corpse he had become. Porthos almost missed his endless teasing and boasting.

He took a deep breath. He could manage a silent Aramis. It could be considered an improvement. A few weeks ago he would have done stable duty for a month to be given such a gift. He'd get him to eat his stew and then Tréville would be happy. It was only a matter of minutes.

"Let's get you sitting up then," he said, not entirely sure why he felt the need to comment on his every move.

He hoisted Aramis up by his shoulders and was taken aback by how little he seemed to weigh. Aramis had always been a lean man, but now he was skeletal. Leaning him against his shoulder, Porthos could feel his ribs. He positioned the bowl of stew on his thigh and tried to get Aramis to take the spoon. Aramis let him manipulate his body like a puppet, but wouldn't move on his own account.

"Right," Porthos said, biting his lip. "I hope you don't mind if I… It's only… I really think you should eat."

There was no protest from the other man and Porthos decided to take that as approval. Shifting further onto the bed, he draped one arm around Aramis' waist, steadying both him and the bowl. With his other hand, he slowly lifted the spoon.

"It's beef stew," he said. "And potatoes and onions and probably some other things that Serge found at the market. It's pretty good."

There was no reply, but at least Aramis opened his mouth and swallowed obediently.

"It's not too hot, is it?" Porthos asked. He'd only ever fed babies and for those you had to be real careful they didn't burn themselves. On further reflection, he figured Aramis was probably fine.

After a few mouthfuls of stew, Porthos gave Aramis a sip of ale. That went less smoothly. Aramis seemed unable to drink properly from the mug and much of the liquid dribbled down his beard. Porthos dabbed at it with the corner of a blanket. Aramis' usually neatly trimmed beard was overgrown and bushy. Silent, pliant, and dishevelled, this man really bore no resemblance to the Aramis he knew. Seeing him drove home the terrible reality of the Spanish attack. A proud musketeer had been reduced to this and all those others killed outright. It was outrageous to see the regiment and by extension France itself. As for Aramis… no man should be reduced to this.

Settling back into their feeding routine, Porthos told himself to calm down. This would all be terribly sad if Aramis had been a friend. But truly, Porthos didn't care about him. He was here for Tréville's sake. He'd get some stew into the man and then he'd hope Serge would tell the captain and that the captain would appreciate his efforts. Maybe, if he stayed here long enough, Tréville might even find him in the room. The captain usually came to sit with Aramis after his tasks for the day were done.

They made slow, but steady progress through the bowl of stew. Porthos kept shifting Aramis' body against his, trying to find the most comfortable position for them both. He didn't usually mind silence, but he figured it would be awkward for Aramis to be so helpless, to be fed like a babe, and to make the situation a little less strange, he started to talk. At first, he spoke about his work in the armoury, but then thought that talk of weapons was maybe not the best for a man suffering from battle dreams.

"I've got a girl, you know," he said. "Most beautiful woman in the world."

Aramis obediently swallowed another spoon full of stew.

"Long blonde hair. She says it's like straw but I tell her it's gold. She's smart, my girl. Just laughs at me, says it's lies. It isn't. Not to me anyways."

More stew followed and another ill-fated attempt at the ale.

"Known her since we were small. Used to run together, us and another boy," Porthos continued his tale. "We were some right terrors. But good friends, all of us. Stuck together and made it through. And my girl, she's still making it now."

Never mentioning names, or indeed the location, Porthos told Aramis about his childhood at the court. The nice bits at least, the friendship and the fun they'd had.

"I'll go back one day," he concluded. "When I'm a musketeer I'll go and buy her a great big house. She'd like that. Maybe buy her a nice little shop, a little tavern maybe. She'd be good with that. Always had a knack with people, my girl. And then I'll ask her to marry me. All good and proper in a church and all. We'll make a fine couple, us two."

Porthos wasn't used to hearing so much of his own voice, but found he didn't really mind. It had been a long time indeed since he'd had such a captive audience. Not since the court maybe, when they were all still kids and at night he'd tell stories to Charon and Flea.

Once they were done with the stew, Porthos paused. He wasn't sure any of the ale had actually reached its destination, so he hesitated with the wine. Eventually, he wiped the spoon on his shirt and poured a drop of wine onto it. Aramis grimaced at first, clearly not expecting the taste, but then he swallowed. It was slower than drinking, but sip after sip Porthos managed to make him take the wine.

"That's better," he said, fondly stroking Aramis' shorn head. He caught himself quickly and stopped, feeling ridiculous. The man was a musketeer, not a cat to be petted.

"Right then," Porthos said. "I better… you probably want to be left alone now…"

He waited for some sign that Aramis did or didn't want him to leave. It felt odd to make that decision himself. On the one hand he felt like he could not leave him alone, on the other hand there was nothing left for him to do here.

In the end, the latter sentiment won out. There was no telling how long Tréville would be and he could hardly sit here with his arms around another man for the rest of the night. Plus, there was the matter of the screaming. The sun was setting and as soon as it was dark, all bets would be off with Aramis' dreams. And Porthos did not want to be accused of making it worse in whatever way.

He made sure Aramis' face was clean and laid him back down, adjusting the pillow and blankets multiple times to make him as comfortable as possible. Then he took a step back to admire his handiwork.

Aramis whimpered.

Porthos froze. Maybe that whimper was the start of the screaming. Or maybe Aramis was in pain. Pain that Porthos had inadvertently caused. Maybe he had fed him too much? Serge had said he didn't usually eat… Either way, it seemed about time to beat a hasty retreat.

"Goodnight," he mumbled, gathered Serge's things and made for the door.

Outside he hesitated, thought about going back in, then shook his head. The captain would be along shortly. He'd know better if Aramis needed anything. He'd also know if Porthos had… He hadn't done anything wrong, damn it. He'd fed Aramis what Serge gave him, that was all. Porthos nodded his head, confirming to himself that he was right to leave.

"How'd it go?" Serge asked as soon as Porthos stepped into the kitchen.

Porthos shrugged and put down the bowl and cups. "Slow. Didn't drink much of the ale."

Serge peered suspiciously at the empty bowl. "Did you eat that?" he asked.

"What? I had my dinner."

Serge eyed him critically. "Big lad like you… I know you lot…"

"Listen," Porthos said. "You don't find me saying no to food, but I don't take it from the mouth of a man who needs it like that."

He shook his head. He was certainly not above stealing food, but to be accused like that…

Serge stared at the bowl again. "He don't eat that much. Never more than a few bites."

Porthos snorted. "Explains the weight, then. That man's near starved."

Serge seemed close to tears again when he looked up. "He won't eat," he said plaintively.

Porthos swallowed his anger at the previous accusation and put a hand on the cook's shoulder, squeezing gently. "He did tonight. Drank the wine as well."

Serge sniffed. "Thank you, lad."

Porthos nodded. "S'alright."

He wasn't so sure that night when the screaming started. Nothing seemed alright then. Did it sound more anguished than usual? Should he have alerted Serge or the captain to Aramis' whimper? There was no telling now. At least as long as Aramis screamed, he was alive. Whatever it was, at least he hadn't killed the guy.


	3. Panic Attacks (2 of 3)

**Panic Attacks (Chapter 2 of 3)**

The next morning at muster, Porthos tried to scan Tréville's face for clues, but the captain was as inscrutable as ever. Orders were issued to various small groups of musketeers, duties divvied up between the men, and a schedule announced for the new recruits' training that day. As so often, Porthos was left to find his own tasks. He turned to help Serge clean up after breakfast, reckoning he could ask the cook about Aramis.

The captain's voice stopped him. "Porthos! My office. Now."

Porthos frantically tried to swallow down the rapidly rising panic. He'd done it all wrong and Tréville knew. He went over every moment of the previous evening, every movement, every word. What had he done, what had he said? The screaming last night… He'd been right, it _had_ sounded worse than before. He had messed up royally.

He bit down firmly on his lip. No. He had done everything to the best of his ability. Of course he had left at the end. He had fed Aramis and that was his duty done. He would not feel guilty for doing Serge a favour. And Serge had been happy enough with him. He had no reason to be ashamed. He would take whatever the captain had to say on the chin, but he would not put himself down.

Tréville was standing behind his desk when Porthos entered his office.

"Close the door," the captain said. Porthos swallowed hard. This was a private matter then.

He stood at attention, silently watching the captain pace. Waiting, speaking only when spoken to. He had learned that in the infantry. Tréville was a kinder commanding officer than any he had known before, but Porthos did not see that as an invitation to be overly familiar with him. He had not been in the office since the day Tréville has signed him up as a recruit. Since then he'd faded into obscurity. Keeping a low profile, another lesson he'd learned in the infantry. Too low, this time, at least if he was ever going to get his commission. But better not to be noticed than to be thrown out of the regiment.

And now… It would be very unfair for Tréville to send him away. Whatever he had done, he hadn't known any better. He had been trying to help and it wasn't fair to punish him for that. But if he had learned one thing over the years it was that life was very rarely fair.

"You fed Aramis last night?" Tréville asked.

"Yes, captain."

"He ate everything?"

"Yes, captain."

"Serge tells me you spent a good hour with him."

"I don't know, captain," Porthos answered honestly.

Tréville scrubbed a hand over his face. "He hasn't been eating. That whole time… if we can get three, four spoons full of gruel or broth into him, it's a good day."

Porthos nodded. "He might be getting better, sir."

Tréville sighed heavily. "We live in hope."

Porthos had nothing to say to that. He tried very hard not to shift uncomfortably in the ensuing silence. Tréville didn't seem angry or indeed terribly likely to send him away, but Porthos wasn't taking any chances. He had wanted Tréville's attention, but now that he had it, he wasn't sure what to do with it. He was relieved when Tréville finally spoke again.

"I'm going to ask you a favour, Porthos. I want you to understand that your reply will have no bearing on your position within the regiment. I ask you to consider your decision carefully and not commit to anything you don't want to do. This is in no way part of your duties as a recruit."

"Yes, captain," Porthos replied.

Tréville scratched his beard. "I'm sorry to ask this of you. You have every right to say no. In fact you probably… It is entirely my responsibility."

Porthos had never seen the captain so flustered. "I understand," he said.

Tréville drew in a deep breath. "You are the only one who has been able to make him eat. Would you take over giving Aramis his meals?"

After that long preamble, the request was hardly a surprise and it took Porthos only a brief moment to consider it. No bearing on his position within the regiment. Porthos was willing to bet his right arm that that was nothing but a nice sentiment. If he said no, he had no place in the regiment.

This was his moment to make or break his career. He'd always expected it to be a moment of courage in battle, of saving Tréville's life maybe, or the King's. Not a matter of feeding an infant. But he wasn't picky about his chances. Tréville was focused on Aramis so if Porthos was around Aramis when nobody else was… There was no question here, not really, and he suspected that for all his nice words, Tréville knew that, too. As long as Aramis didn't die on his watch, Porthos would have his career made for him without a single cut or bruise, without ever having to mount a horse.

"Of course," Porthos said and that sealed it.

Three times a day from then on, Porthos got food and drink from Serge, made sure Aramis finished both, and confirmed he was still breathing by the end of it. It wasn't the most exciting of routines, but Porthos had certainly had worse. At least this didn't involve horses.

Every morning, Porthos was the first man in Serge's kitchen. He hared up the stairs as quickly as a well-filled bowl of gruel would allow, and usually arrived when the captain was putting on his uniform. Most importantly, he was the first man to speak to Tréville each day. There wasn't much to say as one night with Aramis was as bad as the next and Tréville had the exhaustion to prove it. Nevertheless, he always thanked Porthos. And that, in Porthos' eyes, was definitely a step towards the captain recommending him to the King for a commission.

It was all a bit odd. He grew tired of his endless monologue. He told Aramis more about Flea than he ever knew he remembered. He provided him with a detailed account of his favourite taverns and their regulars. He even explained several of his card tricks. Sometimes he strayed into talk of the garrison, but that was usually when Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and started to shift uneasily, so he stopped quickly. Aramis still weighed next to nothing and showed precious few signs of life, so Porthos wasn't sure his frequent visits were doing him any good. The least he could do was not to make him uncomfortable with his talk.

At lunch time on the fourth day, Porthos was particularly lost for anything to say. He had put Aramis back down for a moment after a vicious coughing fit had visibly exhausted him. It happened sometimes when even swallowing seemed to be beyond him. Porthos felt distinctly uncomfortable looking at the man lying there, trying to catch his breath. The cough had brought tears to his eyes and it felt wrong to stare and make a spectacle of that.

Eyes darting around the room, he searched for something, anything, to capture his attention and give him something to talk about. There wasn't much. The bottles of tonics and various physician's tools had disappeared because Aramis refused to take anything vaguely medicinal and Tréville refused to let him be bled. Marsac's old bed at the opposite wall was where the captain now slept. He left it neatly made and immaculate each day. The books were still on the mantlepiece. Porthos recognised the Bible. The other books seemed no more likely to be comprehensible. They were fancy books. He said as much to Aramis who was still wheezing.

Finally, he saw something that actually captured his interest. Hung over the back of a chair was Aramis' pauldron. He'd never seen one cast off like that. The musketeers were never without them. Nobody left theirs lying about. His fingers brushed the dark, almost black leather. It was rough. He carefully picked the pauldron up, holding his breath when he had it in his hands. It wasn't heavy, but it felt so significant. In multiple places, the elaborate pattern was notched and cut. Porthos traced the crosses and the fleur-de-lis he wanted to wear so much.

Aramis made a choked noise and Porthos wheeled around, pauldron still in hand. He'd thought laying him back down to recover had been the best thing to do, but if it made him choke… That would not help him get his hands onto a pauldron of his very own.

Aramis looked straight at him, which was still a rarity.

"Please," he whispered.

Porthos knelt next to the bed, eyes frantically scanning the man on the bed.

"What do you need?" he asked, finding nothing amiss.

"Please," Aramis repeated, stretching out a bony arm, pointing at Porthos… pointing at the pauldron he still held.

"You want this?"

"Please."

Porthos handed it to him. Aramis' fingers immediately closed around it, nails digging deep into the leather. His breath was fast and shallow, but he did not look panicked. Porthos just sat on the floor and watched him. There was something beautiful about the scene. The musketeer and his pauldron, finally reunited.

After a while, Aramis loosened his grip and started to unsteadily trace the outline of the leather, to run his fingers along the straps and buckles. His breath hitched a few times when his nails caught on particularly deep cuts. He tried to lift the pauldron from his stomach, but his arms shook with the effort. He ended up dropping the leather straight onto his face. Porthos gently shifted it so it rested on his chest.

Aramis looked at him. "Thank you."

Porthos smiled. "So you _can_ speak."

Aramis jerked, suddenly alarmed.

"Hey," Porthos said softly. "You're alright."

He reached out a hand and ran his finger over the fleur-de-lis. "It's beautiful," he said.

He gave Aramis a few minutes before he reminded him that he hadn't finished his lunch yet. Aramis sighed. Porthos smirked.

"Come on," he said. "You eat up now and I'll see if I can find some wax for this. It's looking pretty rough. We can clean it tonight."

The look on Aramis' face was unreadable, but eventually he nodded, so that's what they did that night. Porthos brought a brush, a basin of water, and several cloths to clean the pauldron before conditioning it. He left Aramis leaning against some pillows so he was half sitting up in bed. He brushed off the worst of the dirt, then dumped the pauldron onto Aramis' stomach and handed him a wet rag.

Aramis looked at him.

Porthos nodded. "Go for it."

Aramis took a deep, steadying breath, before tightening his grip on the cloth. He swiped it across a speck of dirt.

"Give it a bit more," Porthos encouraged. "We want your pauldron nice and shiny."

Aramis gritted his teeth and applied a bit more pressure. Porthos grinned broadly. It took some time, but eventually Aramis leaned back onto the pillows, a dirty cloth and clean pauldron in his limp hands. He was breathing heavily.

"Good one," Porthos said and smiled at him.

Aramis frowned.

"None of that," Porthos said and took the rag from him. "Don't go rushing yourself."

Aramis grunted.

Porthos lifted an eyebrow. "What was that?"

Aramis shook his head.

"Honestly, you've got to take it easy. You've been out for a while."

Aramis frowned and squeezed his eyes shut. Porthos grimaced. It was so easy to make Aramis feel worse, but nothing he did seemed to make him any better.

"Right," Porthos said. "Let's get this done."

He grabbed the pauldron and the small pot of leather cream he had borrowed from the stables. He settled down on the floor, leaning his back against the bed, and making sure that Aramis could watch his every move over his shoulder.

"I like this, you know," Porthos said, massaging the cream into the leather. "It's nice to make it look good. Feels good as well. And smells good."

He held up the pot for Aramis to get a whiff of the beeswax and oils.

"I clean a lot of tack," he continued. "Nobody really wants to do it. Even when they're on stable duty, they'd rather muck about with the horses."

He shook his head. He'd never understand that. "So I let them do that and I do the tack. Clean it, polish it. Tack's better than horses any day."

He continued like that. There was no sound from Aramis and Porthos wondered if he had fallen asleep. It still felt odd to supervise a grown man like a child.

"There we go," he finally said, holding out the gleaming pauldron for Aramis' inspection. When he turned around, Aramis gave him an odd look that Porthos interpreted as a smile that couldn't quite make its way to his face. He grinned in response, trying to express joy for both of them.

"Let me know if I missed a bit," he said and reverently laid the pauldron onto Aramis' blankets.

Aramis seemed almost shy when he reached for it. His hands were shaking wildly. The tension was palpable. It was touching how much his pauldron meant to the musketeer.

"I'd like one of my own one day," Porthos said. "A pauldron, a commission. Be a real musketeer."

He trailed his fingers along one of the straps and sighed. "One day, maybe."

He looked up at Aramis, but the musketeer paid him no heed, still staring at his pauldron. Porthos waited. He meant what he'd said earlier, that Aramis shouldn't rush himself. And he was good at waiting. But eventually, his patience wore thin. He'd expected some reply, a nod, a smile, anything, but clearly Aramis wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

"Right," Porthos said and got to his feet. "I'll leave you to it."

He gathered the empty dishes and discarded cleaning utensils, then looked around the room for anything to clean or clear or straighten. He wanted Tréville to come back to as welcoming a room as possible. There wasn't anything he could do about the state Aramis was in, but he could help with other things.

When everything was in order, he nodded to Aramis. "You take care now. I'll see you in the morning."

With one last smile, he headed for the door.

"Stay."

Aramis' voice was soft, but clear.

"You want me to stay?" Porthos asked.

Aramis ducked his head. "Please."

"Of course."

Porthos put down the various items and pulled up a chair next to the bed. Aramis turned his head away, staring at the wall. Porthos frowned. For somebody who had just requested his company, Aramis seemed decidedly disinterested. He couldn't read the guy.

He sighed.

"Right. Shall we do your boots then? Same procedure? I brush, you clean, then I wax?"

"No."

"Come on Aramis, we got to do something. I can't just sit here doing nothing."

Aramis' only reply was one of the odd choked noises he made sometimes.

Porthos grabbed the boots anyways. He brushed most of the dirt off before dumping them into Aramis' lap. Aramis jumped so much, Porthos would have thought he had been asleep, if his eyes had not been following his every movement.

"Come on," he said, trying to force a fresh rag into Aramis' hand. "Get them cleaned up and I'll polish them."

"No," Aramis pressed out between gritted teeth.

"You got to do something."

"No."

"Just clean your damn boots." Porthos was reaching the end of his patience now. He clearly wasn't getting anywhere with this soft approach.

It seemed to work. Aramis gripped the cloth and sat up straighter. At least he was moving. And talking. Porthos guessed that was an improvement. He poured himself a cup of wine. He might as well since it didn't seem like he'd see the tavern that night.

When he turned back to the bed, Aramis's entire body had seized up as if in a cramp. His shoulders were drawn up, back bowed, his fingers curved into claws. And everything was shaking. Aramis tried to run the cloth over the boots, but it was clear he had no real control over his movements.

"Hey," Porthos said, stepping towards him quickly. "Stop. Leave it, Aramis."

"Got—to do—something."

"Not like this." Porthos put a hand on Aramis' shoulder. The muscles were hard with tension. "Aramis, please." He tried to put his other hand on Aramis'.

"No." Aramis ground his teeth so loudly it made Porthos shiver.

"Aramis, you're hurting yourself. Don't. Please."

"Yes."

Porthos caught Aramis' flailing arms in his hand.

"Aramis… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I should have listened. I thought… nonsense obviously."

Aramis whimpered.

Porthos shushed him. "It's alright. It's alright now. I'll take them away. I'll take them away and we'll lie you back down. Shh, it's alright. It was my mistake."

By the time Porthos had Aramis back to lying flat on the bed, Aramis had squeezed his eyes firmly shut. The cramp seemed to be easing, but he was still shaking like a tree in a storm.

Porthos put the pauldron carefully on the pillow next to Aramis' head. Such a proud musketeer, brought so low. And Porthos only seemed to be making it worse.

He didn't feel he could leave him, not like this. As long as Aramis didn't tell him to go, he would stay. He sat back down on the floor next to the bed and took care of those boots. He hummed songs while he worked, cleaning, then polishing the supple leather. They were good boots and they certainly deserved some care, just like their owner.

He resisted the temptation to look at Aramis, giving him a little privacy. Only when both boots were shining, he held them up for Aramis' approval. He did not expect a reply.

"Thank you," Aramis breathed.

Porthos smiled at him. "All good now," he said. "They're ready for you."

Aramis lowered his eyes.

"They'll wait," Porthos assured him. "Wait till you're good and ready."

Suddenly, the door burst open and Tréville ran into the room.

"What's wrong? Is he…? What happened?"

The captain looked terrified.

Porthos stood up and blocked Tréville from getting any closer to the bed. He had seen Aramis' eyes widen in a mad panic at the interruption.

"Nothing is wrong," he said, holding out his hands. "He had a good day. Nothing happened."

Belatedly, he remembered the cramp. It hadn't all been plain sailing. But watching the captain's response to his good news made him reconsider mentioning that. The effect was immediate. Tréville breathed deeply and Porthos could see the pieces of his usual stoic mask fall into place as he composed himself.

"Serge told me you had never come back after dinner. I… feared the worst."

"We were cleaning Aramis' pauldron," Porthos said. "We talked."

"You… talked."

"It's been a good day, sir."

Tréville sighed.

"Thank you Porthos. I apologise for… my behaviour."

Porthos took a step aside to let Tréville look at Aramis. The captain sighed again and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Up close, Porthos could see all those new lines on his face, as well as the black shadows under his swollen eyes. He gestured towards the chair and handed him the cup of wine he had poured earlier. The captain pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked utterly exhausted.

"Drink," Porthos said.

Tréville massaged his temples and drank deeply.

"Thank you," he said. He looked up and gave Porthos a sharp nod. "I feel much refreshed."

Porthos grimaced. If Tréville was refreshed, Aramis was fighting fit.

"Sir," he said slowly. "May I make a suggestion?"

Tréville nodded for him to go on.

"I had an easy day today. Let me take the night watch."

"No, Porthos. That is my duty."

"You made it mine to look after Aramis." Which wasn't strictly the truth, but close enough. "I want to do that tonight, captain."

"That is very noble, Porthos, but not necessary."

"I believe it is, Sir." Porthos bit his lip, aware that he was overstepping a line. "Aramis needs you well-rested. With respect, Sir, you're not."

"Porthos…" Tréville started, kneading his forehead.

"My duty is to the regiment. I'm happy to stay."

Tréville frowned. He seemed torn. His eyes settled on the bed.

"Aramis…"

"Go," Aramis said softly.

Tréville jumped. "He speaks! He hasn't spoken since the day I found him."

Porthos nodded. "He's been speaking all day. We'll be fine."

The captain's resolve began to falter.

"You have done enough for today," Porthos said gently. "Go and rest."

Tréville's eyes flicked between Aramis and Porthos. "I should…"

"Please, sir. We'll see you in the morning," Porthos said.

Aramis gave him a small nod and with one last sigh, Tréville finally headed for the door.

"I'll be in my office," he said, turning back on the threshold. "If anything…"

Tréville's eyes darted over to the bed. He dropped his voice. "If he says anything about Savoy… let me know."

"Of course, sir," Porthos replied. He thought that unlikely, but was touched by the captain's concern.

"I know where to find you." Porthos nodded seriously. "And I promise I will."

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind their captain.

"Poor devil," he said. "He's blaming himself."

Aramis frowned.

"Somehow thinks he should have known the Spanish would attack," Porthos continued.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut again. His clenched fists trembled on the blankets. He was still wrapped in what looked like every spare blanket in the garrison. He never complained, but Porthos figured he was cold, his mind still caught in the icy forests of Savoy.

Porthos shook his head. He'd better focus on the task at hand. Aramis looked no less tired than the captain. It had been quite the day for him.

Getting Aramis ready for bed was no hardship. Porthos did not mind that little service to an injured soldier and Aramis seemed to have accepted that any embarrassment was dwarfed by his immense need for assistance. His shaking continued. Even though it was no longer his whole body, his limbs were trembling, making even small tasks a daunting endeavour.

Porthos let Aramis relieve himself and washed his hands and face before settling him back into bed. He even opened the window to let in some of the cool night air before closing the shutters. He kept up his usual narrative throughout, but Aramis made no reply.

"You mind if I keep the light on for now?" Porthos asked, but Aramis had already closed his eyes. Porthos took the lack of protest as approval and took the lamp over to what used to be Marsac's side of the room.

He knew that once he was asleep, he'd sleep soundly, and he didn't want to miss any sign of distress from Aramis. He wondered if that thought, more than the screaming, was what kept the captain awake each night.

He had another look at the books on the mantlepiece and finally selected the slimmest one. He carefully set it down on the table and made sure to keep the wine far away from it. He knew how valuable books were. Opening it reverently, he found the name of its author, Jean Lemaire de Belges. He'd been to Belgium as part of his travels in the infantry. They were good people there and he would like to see what this Jean had to say about them.

There were three words in large, bold letters. He knew the first two. _La courrone_ , the crown. He was flummoxed by the third, _margaritique._ Probably something about the crown, but he had no idea what. Frowning, Porthos turned the pages. They had not made good use of the precious paper. There were only a few words in each line and the larger part of each page was left completely blank.

He picked a page at random and started to read. _Chanson,_ that meant song. _De Galathée,_ of something… maybe a name of a city or a regiment? _Bergère,_ shepherdess. Maybe a name. Maybe Galathée was the name of the girl. He smiled. Sounded like Aramis and Marsac to own a book about a singing shepherdess.

For all the waste of paper, he did like how few words there were in each line. He could move on to the next one very quickly. _Arbres,_ trees, that was easy, but the next word baffled him again. _Feuillus,_ something about the trees, presumably. Porthos rubbed his forehead. This book made no sense. It used words that no one could understand, but then that sounded like Aramis, the pretentious git. He looked over to the bed. Nothing pretentious about Aramis now. He lay curled up under his blankets, a little bundle of a man, no different from the one Tréville had carried up here nearly two weeks ago. Porthos sighed. He shouldn't think poorly of Aramis, not when he was like that.

He wondered when the screaming would start. Aramis seemed to be sleeping soundly, but for how long? Maybe he shouldn't have stayed. Maybe he was only making it worse. And once it started, then what? He could run for Tréville, of course, but that would hardly recommend him as a strong, independent musketeer. It would also mean leaving Aramis alone and he didn't want that.

He took out his cards and played a few rounds of Patience. Always a good way to keep himself awake during long watches. He felt he was on watch here, guarding against some mysterious enemy. He didn't know what to expect, what would happen to Aramis. Judging by the screaming he had heard, Aramis was in agony each night. Did he hurt himself? Would there be some apparition, some ghost to torture him? Porthos chuckled softly. Nonsense. He knew from personal experience that most ghosts were ordinary people that simply didn't want to be seen.

Porthos jumped when the screaming started.

There was nothing. No ghost, no apparition, no flesh and blood enemy, and no way Aramis was hurting himself. He just screamed.

He was no longer curled up on his side, but lay on his back, his head thrown back. His eyes were closed, his face a stretched into a grotesque grimace.

Porthos quickly lit the second lamp, trying to get a better look at it all. Aramis was thrashing on his bed like a man possessed. Which, by the sound of it, he might well be.

"Aramis," Porthos called. "Aramis, wake up."

If anything, the screaming grew louder.

"Aramis, I'm here. It's alright."

Aramis was thrashing about so wildly, Porthos was afraid he'd injure himself. And then where'd they be? Aramis without his health and Porthos without his commission.

He caught Aramis' hands in his and leaned over him.

"I got you, it's alright," he said.

Aramis' eyes snapped open.

"There you are," Porthos said and smiled.

Aramis gasped for breath and then continued to scream. It was like the howling of a wild animal, shrill and desperate. His body bucked upwards, as if trying to throw Porthos off. It wasn't a struggle at all, not with Porthos standing up and Aramis as frail as he was.

Leaning closer, Porthos lowered his voice, speaking quietly to Aramis.

"You're safe here," he said. "You're in Paris, at the garrison. Everyone's here, all the musketeers, the recruits, and the captain. They're all here to keep you safe. There's men on watch at the gate all night. The best soldiers in all of France. You're safe. They won't let anyone in, nobody will reach you here. You're safe…"

None of it seemed to reach Aramis. His eyes were still open, but they didn't seem to see, utterly empty, staring at some point far above Porthos' shoulder.

"Come on, Aramis, wake up," Porthos pleaded.

There was no reaction.

Tears were running down Aramis' hollow cheeks.

His eyes were roving aimlessly. Or maybe they did have an aim, but one Porthos couldn't see. He'd never seen a man tortured, but he imagined it would look like that. Aramis seemed in agony. And yet there was nothing. There was no whip stripping the skin from his back, no wheel breaking his bones, no fire licking at his feet. Nothing but an empty room.

A room filled with the ghosts of Savoy, no doubt. Porthos wondered what Aramis had seen. They'd been slain where they slept, Porthos knew that. At night in the forest with no warning at all… he could imagine the carnage all too well. He'd seen many men die, they all had. But it wasn't anything like what it was for Aramis.

It made Porthos sad to see him like that. He didn't know what to do. He felt helpless. He continued to hold Aramis' wrists, gently rubbing the bony joints with his thumbs. And he continued to talk. He spoke of anything he could think of, the odd book by the Belgian guy, the rules of Patience, anything at all.

It didn't help.

Aramis never woke up.

He slumped back in exhaustion, his head lolling to the side as his eyes closed and the screaming stopped. It happened so suddenly that Porthos would have feared for his life if he hadn't been feeling the frantic pulse under his fingertips.

Aramis' arms had stopped moving, stopped struggling against Porthos' grip. Porthos ran his hands up and down Aramis' arms tenderly, trying to soothe in any way possible, to provide whatever little help he could offer. He knew it wasn't much. He couldn't fight whatever demons Aramis saw.

The rest of the night was quiet and Porthos slept on Marsac's old bed, waking occasionally to check on Aramis who seemed completely spent after his nightmare.

In a reversal of their usual roles, it was Tréville who brought breakfast. He was vibrating with barely-concealed anxiety.

"How did it go?" he whispered to Porthos who was just getting dressed. "Was he… Did he…"

Porthos shrugged. "You heard him. No better than usual."

He silently chided himself. Tréville had been trying to sleep only a few doors down. And he'd let Aramis scream, keeping the captain awake again. He did look less like a walking corpse though, so it must have helped some to be in a different room.

"What did you do?" Tréville asked.

"Nothing," Porthos said truthfully. He wished he had thought of something.

Tréville shook his head and looked critically at Porthos.

"I'm sorry he kept you awake," Porthos added. "I should have done better."

The corner of Tréville's mouth twitched into the smallest of smirks. "Hardly," he said. "It lasted just under an hour."

"I didn't know," Porthos said sheepishly.

"The next time the bell rang, I would have come over," Tréville said. "But… it stopped."

"He fell asleep," Porthos said. "Just sort of… stopped."

Tréville shook his head. "You are a marvel, Porthos."

"Sir?" Porthos asked, not sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

"This is remarkable," Tréville explained. "With me, he's averaging three hours a night."

"Oh," Porthos said. He'd never kept track since he was able to sleep through most anything.

"Three hours of screaming versus one."

"Still too much," Porthos said. "He's…" He swallowed. He didn't want to say anything to disparage Aramis. He knew what the others said, Leblanc and Eugène and that lot. "He's strong," he finally said. "He fought it, whatever he sees. Breathing hard like he was fighting for real. He was… I think it's real for him. He's got to fight for his life."

Tréville nodded. "These dreams… they're real to him."

Porthos frowned. "With respect, sir," he said. "But that's not dreams. It's…" He struggled to explain his thoughts. "It's like he's being tortured. But the torturer… he's in here." He tapped his forehead. "Doesn't mean he's not real though."

Tréville looked surprised, but did not dispute Porthos' logic.

"One day his sentence will be over," he said. "And the screaming will stop."

"But—" Porthos stopped himself. It wasn't his place to constantly disagree with his captain.

"It has to," Tréville said. "Aramis' place is at the garrison and— anyways, I'm glad to see you are well and I assume you shall commence your routine from here."

And what? Tréville had stopped himself suddenly, as if afraid he was saying too much. Something about Aramis' place at the garrison. Like he was questioning Aramis' place at the garrison if the screaming continued. And that didn't seem right.

"Sir? If it's alright with you I'd like to… something was better last night so if I can find out what…"

Tréville looked at him for a long time. Porthos met his glance steadily. Finally, Tréville nodded.

"Do what you can, Porthos. I'll see you tonight."

Porthos scratched his beard when Tréville had left. The race was on. One day to figure it out and prove himself once and for all. More importantly, one day to prove that Aramis still had a place among the musketeers.

Aramis remained stubbornly silent and avoided any eye contact during his breakfast that day. Porthos coaxed him into taking the spoon himself, but his hands trembled so much he only ended up flinging gruel everywhere. Aramis huffed, clearly annoyed, while Porthos cleaned up the mess. Porthos left him to his bad mood. He couldn't blame him, really.

He couldn't believe that Tréville would even entertain the thought of giving Aramis his marching orders. He'd been hurt in the line of duty. Surely, he must be allowed to heal in it as well.

Porthos knew that thought was ridiculous, of course. A regiment wasn't an infirmary. They took care of injuries, but when a man was permanently unfit for duty… It happened, of course. Some stuck around, like Serge did. But if Aramis was to remain the way he was… there wasn't a job for a man who couldn't even feed himself.

Porthos helped Aramis through his morning routine. He left the small book he'd picked up the previous night on a stool next to the bed. Maybe Aramis would be able to reach for it. The pauldron still rested next to Aramis pillow. He smiled down at Aramis.

"All good and ready for the day," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Aramis' lips were pressed together in a thin line. He refused to answer or even look up.

"Aramis?" Porthos pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed.

Aramis continued to avoid his eyes, but Porthos could be patient. He put his elbows onto his knees and settled in for the duration.

"If you want to tell me what's bothering you, you're welcome," he said.

It took time, but Porthos had all day. Eventually, Aramis spoke.

"Screaming?" he asked, voice rough.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, not sure where this was going.

Aramis finally looked at him. His eyebrows were knitted together, his forehead creased.

"I scream?"

"Oh…" Porthos breathed. "I thought you… You didn't know?"

Aramis looked off to the side, sucking on his bottom lip. "So much… screaming. Thought it was all… in my head."

"Oh Aramis…" Porthos wanted to reach out, to hold him, to offer some form of comfort, but he caught himself.

"Three hours," Aramis whispered.

"Only one hour last night."

"Screaming… Loud?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Tréville heard."

"It doesn't matter. It only matters that you're getting better."

"They all heard."

"Nobody minds, they all understand."

Aramis glared at him.

"They hate me."

"No, Aramis," Porthos protested. "Nobody hates you. They're grieving, but they're all happy to have you back."

"Grieving because I'm… here…" Aramis' voice trailed off.

"Don't think like that."

Aramis fell silent. He let his head and shoulders hang. Porthos was reminded of the first time he'd seen him after Savoy, a little frightened bird cowering in his bed. All progress from the previous day seemed erased.

"You're getting better," he insisted.

Aramis made a noise half-way between a sob and a choked laugh.

"What made it better last night?" Porthos asked.

"Nothing."

"You heard the captain. Less than an hour. Not three. Something was better."

"No."

"Was it that I left the lights on?"

Aramis pressed his lips together and looked away from him.

"Was it that you could see me? Was it talking to you? Was it because I held you?"

"You… held me?" Aramis asked sharply.

"Your arms. You were hurting yourself."

Aramis huffed.

"What made it better?" Porthos asked. "I'm just trying to help."

"I don't want your help."

Porthos groaned and got up. "Tough. You're getting it."


	4. Panic Attacks (3 of 3)

**Panic Attacks (Chapter 3 of 3)**

At lunch that day, Aramis ignored him completely. Porthos took it as a sign of success that Aramis held himself very stiffly, not leaning into him at all. Sitting up on his own was certainly a step forward. By dinnertime, the atmosphere was positively icy. Porthos didn't let it dampen his spirits. He kept up his usual monologue, completely unimpressed by Aramis' glares.

"I don't want you here," Aramis said once Porthos had settled him for the night.

Porthos shrugged. "Tough," he repeated. "Captain wants me here."

It had been easy enough to convince Tréville. He wanted Aramis to get better and Porthos took a gamble, promising that he could help. If nothing else, Aramis' animosity convinced him that there was some chance of his condition improving. If the man had enough energy to be petty, he had enough energy to get better. And even if he didn't, Porthos had energy to spare. He'd make a place at the garrison for the two of them.

"Go away," Aramis said.

Porthos sat down and shuffled his cards before replying. "Captain's orders. You and me, in here, till breakfast."

Aramis snorted derisively. With more vigour than Porthos had seen him display since the massacre, he turned onto his side, facing the wall. Porthos smiled. He could live with that.

He played a few rounds of Patience. In the otherwise silent room, he could hear Aramis shift uncomfortably. His breaths didn't even out, instead he seemed to hiss out air between his teeth.

"Go to sleep, Aramis," he finally said. "You're safe. I'm here."

"Not helping," Aramis ground out.

"What can I do to help?"

"Go away."

"Not that."

Aramis huffed. "Wake me?" he asked, his voice small and wavering.

"I'm not sure I can," Porthos said. "I couldn't last night."

Aramis made no reply. Porthos sat in silence, looking at the musketeer's back. He wished there was something he could do for him, but he didn't know what. He didn't think Aramis knew either.

It took two dozen rounds of Patience for Aramis' breath to finally deepen and become regular. Porthos stopped his card game and simply sat and listened. His fingers went to his neck, playing with the little pendant on its chain. Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, had served him well over the years. He sent up a little prayer in his own simple words that he would help Aramis as well. A single night without screaming, that would be something.

Saint Jude had more urgent things to do that night.

It started with a low whimper. Porthos was next to the bed in an instant, talking softly to the distressed man. He put the lamp as close as he dared, considering Aramis' erratic movement. He'd thought about it during the day. If Aramis' mind took him back to Savoy and showed him the Spanish attack, maybe it would help for the room to be bright and warm, as unlike to the forest as possible. Maybe it would also help him to not mistake Porthos for a Spanish soldier.

"Aramis," he said softly. "It's alright, you're safe."

Aramis took in a great, shuddering breath. The scream was as wild and desperate as the previous night.

"Hey," Porthos said and put a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "Wake up."

Aramis roughly pulled his shoulder from Porthos' grasp and flopped face first onto his pillow. The scream was muffled now. Aramis started to hit the bed with his fists, violently angry at whatever he saw.

"Wake up," Porthos repeated. "You wanted me to wake you, come on."

Aramis' scream came to a shuddering halt. For a moment, Porthos thought it had worked. Then a rasping breath followed and the scream resumed. Aramis pressed his head further into the pillow, pushing his face deep into the feathers. His gasps for air became increasingly frantic.

"Don't," Porthos said. "Come on, you can't breathe like that. Turn over."

When Aramis didn't react, Porthos grabbed his shoulders and very gently tried to move him. Aramis' breath hitched and the scream turned into a shrill screech. He desperately pressed the pillow to his face.

"No, no, none of that," Porthos said. "Don't you dare…"

Aramis curled in on himself, the pillow between his chin and his breast. The screech ended in a throaty grunt, but still Aramis wouldn't let go.

Porthos pulled with all his might. He wouldn't let Aramis suffocate himself. He wouldn't let him go like that.

He pulled the pillow from Aramis' mouth. He hadn't counted on Aramis' ferocity in keeping it there. He clung to it with all his strength, which was surprising for the overall state he was in. Porthos at least managed to shift the pillow far enough for Aramis to take in a gasping breath.

"Give me that," Porthos barked and wrestled one corner of the pillow from the once again screaming man.

The next moment, Aramis' fist connected ferociously with his left eye.

Surprised by the sudden attack, Porthos fell back, ripping the pillow in the process. He went down in a flurry of feathers falling around him like snow.

His hand went up to his eye, feeling for blood. He winced. The skin was tender, but intact. He closed his right eye for a moment and was glad that he could still see. He'd barely kept his left eye the previous year and he wasn't about to lose it to that madman now.

 _Aramis._

Porthos scrambled to his knees and looked at the bed. Aramis lay on his back, still gasping for air. Each breath was accompanied by a whimper, but at least the screaming had stopped. His eyes were wide open, looking up.

"Aramis," Porthos called. He moved in front of Aramis, but the dark eyes looked straight through him. He gently touched his arm, but Aramis didn't react, just kept staring straight ahead and breathing heavily.

At least he wasn't screaming.

Porthos sighed and fingered his face again. The eye was swelling shut already. Aramis had hit him good. Nothing to be done about it now. He had to help Aramis first.

Porthos got the pillow from the other bed and brushed the stray feathers from Aramis' bed and body before repositioning him. Bent low over Aramis, he noticed that once again there were tears streaming from his eyes. He brushed them away with his thumb, but could do little to stem the flood. The poor bugger.

Porthos collected as many of the feathers as he could find and stuffed them back into the shredded pillowcase. He'd have to sew that in the morning. He sighed. He wasn't much of a seamstress.

He went to bed still listening to Aramis' distressed whimpers. The screaming had been short that night, he realised that, but he felt no better for it.

The next morning, he met Tréville outside. His eye had swollen considerably and he didn't want to risk Tréville reacting to it in front of Aramis. It proved a wise choice. The captain grabbed his chin to angle his face to the faint light of the rising sun and gave the bruise a thorough inspection. It took several minutes to convince him that it had been Porthos' fault entirely and Aramis was not in fact a danger to anyone.

Tréville had noticed how short the screaming had been the night before. Even though he was concerned about Porthos' injury, in the end it was only a minor side effect. If it meant Aramis got well, he'd probably let him punch a recruit every night.

Porthos didn't blame him for it.

He was particularly cheerful when he opened the shutters that morning, chattering about how it looked a beautiful day out there, the sun shining, the trees laden with flowers.

"And you had a good night," he concluded.

"No screaming?" Aramis asked.

"Very little."

Aramis sighed and Porthos watched him knead his forehead. Porthos smiled. It was good to see Aramis move deliberately. It was good to hear his voice be less rough than before.

"I remember, there was…" Aramis said.

"What do you remember?"

"Nonsense." Aramis shook his head. "Somehow I think I was attacked."

"You were in here all night. Nobody entered the room."

"I know that." Aramis huffed out a breath in frustration.

"Give yourself time," Porthos said, not knowing what else to say.

Aramis immediately turned on his feeble attempt at positivity. "How much time?"

He whipped his head around, finally looking at Porthos. The effect was immediate. What little colour he had regained drained from his face. Porthos reached out a steadying arm, afraid he might topple over.

"What happened?" Aramis asked tonelessly.

Porthos smiled at him. "Nothing."

"Porthos…" Aramis was breathing quickly.

"It's nothing," Porthos repeated.

"The truth," Aramis ground out. Porthos frowned. He didn't want to give him that, but being called out so directly, he felt he had little choice.

"We had a little disagreement," he said eventually.

"We… I…"

"It's alright. Don't think about it."

Aramis' eyes were wide and he was gasping for air almost like the night before.

"It doesn't even hurt," Porthos tried to reassure him.

"Your eye…"

"It's fine. Just swollen. I've had worse."

"Let me…" Aramis reached out a trembling hand.

Porthos leaned forward until Aramis' fingers brushed against his forehead. It was clear he wanted to inspect the damage done to Porthos' eye, but his hand was shaking so badly, his fingers kept aimlessly running across Porthos' face. Porthos gently took hold of his wrist and guided Aramis' fingers with his own. Aramis felt along his eyebrow, then prodded the bone beneath his eye. Porthos barely held back a hiss of pain. To his surprise, Aramis lingered on his scar, tracing it all the way from his forehead to his cheek.

"It's stretched," Aramis breathed.

"It's holding fine."

"For now." Aramis' voice sounded pained.

"It's fine, Aramis."

"I hurt you."

Porthos shrugged. "I'll return the favour once you're training again."

Aramis didn't go along with his levity. He averted his eyes and dropped his hand from Porthos' face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't be," Porthos responded, but Aramis wouldn't look at him.

"Hey," Porthos said. "One thing's for sure, your aim's still true!"

A little noise escaped Aramis, but no words followed.

At least he ate when Porthos fed him.

"I've always envied your aim," Porthos told him, resigning himself to one-sided conversation once more. "You know when I first arrived at the garrison, I didn't even think Tréville'd let me stay. And then he does and suddenly it's all training with muskets and pistols and stuff."

He set down the bowl and let Aramis have a sip to drink, smiling at how much progress he had made.

"I'd been an infantryman," Porthos continued. "Not one of you fancy pants. We didn't get to shoot much. Even if you had a weapon, no armoury to go to for powder and balls. So I barely knew one end of a gun from the other."

"You're good," Aramis croaked.

Porthos chuckled. "You're not fooling anyone. Tréville kept me for hand-to-hand. I can manage a blade, but I'm a rubbish shot."

Aramis made no reply. Porthos hummed happily while he continued to feed him.

"You were the worst though," he said. "There's me doing target practice. I'm bad enough as it is, mind. And then there's you. Sauntering out of your room, not even looking, and you shoot bullseye on my target from the balcony."

"How do you know I wasn't looking?"

Porthos huffed out a laugh and squeezed Aramis' shoulder. "That's just you. When you show someone up, you do it properly."

Aramis didn't reply and didn't smile as such, but somehow Porthos felt like he did, like he'd enjoyed that reminder of more carefree days.

They finished the meal in silence, but Porthos was still smiling when he left the room. He wanted to join the shooting practice that morning, imagining Aramis up on that balcony again, sashaying down the stairs, smirking at his mediocre aim. One day they'd get back to that. For now, he'd take Aramis as he was. Take one step at a time, one day after the other. They'd get there eventually.

Porthos went to the armoury to retrieve a weapon and some ammunition. He was humming a tavern song and thinking about how lucky he was to have access to an armoury like that on top of a roof over his head and as much food as he could eat.

Two musketeers were in the armoury already. One of them stretched and yawned. Porthos recognised Eugène and decided to leave them well alone.

"A man can't get a decent night's sleep around here," Eugène said. "Always that madman screaming."

Porthos wanted to make him scream for that comment alone. That was no way to speak about Aramis. But he tried to be smart and ignore them. Best not to get involved. It wasn't his place to be criticising senior musketeers.

The other musketeer, Leblanc, laughed. "When he stopped last night, I hoped he'd finally choked on it, but—"

"Don't say that!" Porthos interrupted him before his conscious mind could intervene. That much for not getting involved. He'd get himself into trouble. And for what? It wasn't like Aramis would walk into the room any minute. Too late now. "You don't know what you're saying," he added.

"Oh really?" Leblanc said. "I don't know anything, do I? But you do, little nursemaid?"

Eugène chuckled. "Don't interrupt when adults are talking," he said dismissively.

They made to go back to whatever they had been discussing, but Porthos hovered awkwardly. He knew he had to let it go, but hated to hear them talk about Aramis like he didn't even matter.

Leblanc glared at him. Catching sight of Porthos' black eye, he laughed. "Doesn't look like you're much of a nursemaid either."

Porthos swallowed heavily, trying very hard to be the bigger man. "Leave it alone," he said and turned away from them to select a musket.

They laughed. "Can't even handle that little cry baby, eh?"

Porthos balled his fists. He was shaking worse than Aramis. "Say what you want about me," he said trying very hard to keep his voice even. "But Aramis is a musketeer."

"A musketeer?" Leblanc said. "He's nothing but a coward."

The anger made Porthos' body move on its own. Next thing he knew, he had Leblanc pinned to the wall, forearm across his throat.

"Shut your face," he growled. "You have no idea."

They stared at each other, Porthos snarling and Leblanc blessedly silent for once.

"What's going on here?" Bernard stepped into the room.

Porthos froze just long enough for Leblanc to slip from his grasp.

Leblanc laughed. "We were merely fooling around," he said and laughed. "Our little friend here has much to learn." He reached up to ruffle Porthos' hair.

Behind them, Eugène laughed and said something as well, but Porthos focussed on Leblanc who drew him close and whispered into his ear. "A recruit attacking a musketeer… how would that look…"

A _black_ recruit, Porthos' mind added. A black recruit's word against that of two white musketeers.

"What really happened?" Bernard asked sharply. Porthos' stomach tied itself into a knot around his breakfast. Bernard didn't sound convinced. Sounded like he was itching for a confession that would condemn Porthos.

"Leblanc is right," Porthos said. "I have a lot to learn."

He went back to picking up a musket. Leblanc and Eugène left, laughing, but thankfully not about Aramis.

"Porthos," Bernard said. "Your eye. Captain Tréville does not tolerate violence among his men."

Porthos wheeled around. "It's not—"

"If Leblanc…"

Bile rose in Porthos' throat. He couldn't afford to be dragged in front of Tréville for instigating a fight with two musketeers. "The captain already knows," he said. "It's fine. It was Aramis. It was my fault. It's fine, really."

Bernard's face softened. "Aramis has always been a feisty one," he said. "Thank you for bringing that back, lad."

Porthos breathed out deeply when Bernard left the armoury. Leblanc was right indeed. He had so much to learn. How to master his temper for one. How to not get himself kicked out of the garrison.

It was wrong what they had said. But it wasn't his place to discipline musketeers. He wondered how much the captain knew about what the men were saying. After the incident with Serge, he had given Leblanc, Eugène and their companion a very public dressing down and issued a clear warning to everyone else, but it had only given food to the whispers. Porthos knew he wasn't hearing half of what was going on in the garrison and suspected the captain heard even less.

His shooting was even worse than usual that day. He couldn't see well; that was a convenient excuse. The truth was he couldn't focus his thoughts long enough to aim properly.

He tried his hardest to be his usual cheerful self by lunch, regaling Aramis with tales of his misadventures with the musket. He didn't mind making himself look the fool in front of Aramis, as long as it made mealtimes pleasant. By dinnertime, that didn't work any more. No matter what Porthos said, Aramis seemed tense.

"Tréville coming tonight?" he asked.

"Nah, it's me again," Porthos said. "He's got some thing at the palace. King's having a spring fête. Wanted a dozen musketeers and the captain. Wouldn't let him out of it."

"A dozen…" Aramis repeated. "Only recruits here?"

Porthos nodded. "Almost. Bernard's in charge for the night."

They both knew they were short of musketeers, no need to elaborate. Bernard was a good man and Porthos respected him, but he wasn't a leader as such. In sharp contrast to Aramis of old, he was quiet and preferred to be in the background, much like Porthos himself. Maybe it was the fate of big men.

Aramis sank back into his pillows with a sigh and worried his lower lip.

"You alright?" Porthos asked.

"Fine," Aramis spat. He looked and sounded nowhere close to fine, but Porthos didn't press the point. He decided to see this tetchiness as a return to form.

"Take the light away," Aramis said when Porthos helped him settle down for the night.

Porthos frowned. "You sure?"

"It bothers me."

Porthos shrugged. He didn't think this was a good idea, but really couldn't say much against Aramis' express wish. After all, he was here to serve the musketeer, so he moved the light to his corner, allowing Aramis to sleep in the dark.

He started with his usual game of cards, but got frustrated when he lost the first two rounds and decided to sit and wait for the inevitable screaming. As did Aramis. Porthos could hear him shift in the dark. This went on for some time, with Aramis groaning and sighing a fair bit. Porthos wanted to ask him if he was uncomfortable, but held his tongue. Aramis had made it clear he wasn't in a mood to be questioned.

Porthos peered over to the bed when there was a particularly frustrated grunt. He couldn't see very well, but thought Aramis was spread out on his back, not curled up on his side as usual. He hoped Aramis wasn't deliberately keeping himself awake. He was exhausted enough without adding further torture.

With so many men away at the palace, the garrison was quiet that night. Once, Porthos heard Bernard call out to the man on guard at the gate, and a little later, a group of young men returned from the tavern, light banter flying back and forth between them. The usual tall tales about women and wine, and some boasts about how well they'd do at training the next day. Porthos smiled. Aramis would fit right in. If he weren't currently fighting the invisible torturers of his mind.

Porthos started to doze off, listening to Aramis' breaths slowly evening out. He imagined fighting with Aramis, side by side as two commissioned musketeers proudly wearing their pauldrons. They'd be good together. They'd—

An agonised scream tore through his thoughts. Porthos jumped up, sending the chair crashing to the floor.

It was becoming some sort of sad routine now. He brought the lamp closer to the bed, all the while talking soothingly to Aramis.

Something was different that night. A banging accompanied Aramis' thrashing, the bed moving enough to hit the wall.

"Hey," Porthos said. "You've got some reputation in the bedroom. We don't want anyone getting ideas when it's the two of us in here."

He tried to keep the conversation light while he positioned the lamp.

Aramis' body was bucking wildly on the bed. He was screaming like the skin was being torn from his limbs, throwing his head back in utter agony.

"Aramis, you're at the garrison. I'm here… Please, Aramis, it's fine," Porthos said, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

He stayed just out of reach, wary after the previous night's events. He was on Tréville's side there, he'd let Aramis punch him as often as he needed to get better, but Aramis' reaction to his black eye had been anything but encouraging.

Aramis was covered by his usual pile of blankets, unwilling to relinquish a single one of them. It made it difficult to see his body clearly, but something seemed odd. Aramis held his hands over his head on either side of his pillow. The pauldron that had sat there had disappeared. When his body bucked, the entire bed jumped, the wood creaking.

"Aramis?" Porthos' exhausted mind was slow to piece together the information, but when it did, he moved quickly to tear away the blankets.

Aramis had tied himself to the bed.

Porthos tried to hold him, tried to stop his frantic movement. All it did was to madden Aramis further. He was bucking up almost into a sitting position, trying to throw Porthos off, his shoulders drawn back painfully.

"Aramis, no, no, no. Don't."

He'd tied his wrists to the bedposts, one with his pauldron, the other with a belt he must have found discarded under the bed. The leather was digging into his skin, the bones grinding against the solid wood of the bed.

Porthos quickly loosened the belt, releasing Aramis' right hand. The wrist was an angry red. Porthos pinned it to the bed with his leg, unwilling to risk another incident.

Aramis' scream became shriller as he tried to get away from Porthos. His eyes were wide and full of panic.

"It's me, Porthos," Porthos said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help. Please, Aramis, I'm no Spaniard."

Aramis flipped back violently, smashing the back of his head against the headboard.

"Don't go hurting yourself," Porthos chided, trying to manoeuvre his body so he could keep an arm between Aramis' head and the wood. It was a difficult endeavour. He needed two hands to try and untie the knotted straps around Aramis' other wrist.

Porthos cursed. Aramis' constant movement had tightened the knots, making them nearly impossible to undo. When Porthos got both hands onto the tangled straps, Aramis promptly used the opportunity to crack his head against the bedpost. He seemed stunned, giving Porthos the opportunity to straddled his chest. That way he could pin Aramis' right hand down with his knee, while keeping his upper body immobile. He ignored Aramis' bony knees hitting him in the back.

"Aramis, please," he pleaded. "I'm trying to help. Don't hurt yourself."

He kept up a steady stream of what he hoped were reassuring words, but they made no difference. Aramis was still moving as much as he could, fighting Porthos with all the energy he could muster.

It would be quicker to cut the straps off the pauldron, but it meant so much to Aramis, Porthos was loath to damage it. And using a knife so close to Aramis was not his idea of keeping him safe either, so he kept working on those damned knots.

How on earth Aramis had managed to tie himself up so thoroughly, Porthos didn't know. The darkness certainly made sense now.

Porthos dropped as much of his weight as he dared onto Aramis' chest. He didn't want to suffocate him, but he needed him to calm down. The constant movement continually undid his work by tightening the remaining knots even further or shifting them along the bedpost. Of course that also meant further friction on Aramis' wrist. The skin was already rubbed raw by the leather.

The breath rushed out of Aramis and all the tension left his body as soon as Porthos dropped onto his chest.

"I'm sorry," Porthos said, not looking at him while he worked frantically. "I don't want to hurt you, but you're making it worse."

He finally managed to untangle the straps and free Aramis' hand. Quickly, he pushed himself off the musketeer's limp body. All the fight had gone out of Aramis, but to Porthos' relief he was breathing.

Porthos cradled Aramis' abused hands in his lap. Aramis winced when Porthos felt along his fingers, making sure nothing was broken. Bruises and abrasions, as far as he could tell, but nothing seriously wrong. At least they'd made the leather nice and supple. Porthos told himself that might have helped.

He noticed Aramis looking at him, actually looking at him rather than through him. He gave him a tired smile.

"Think we got lucky there," Porthos said. "But there'll be bruises tomorrow."

"Your eye?" Aramis asked.

Porthos was confused. He blinked his eyes. When his left eyelid wouldn't budge, he remembered what Aramis was referring to.

"Oh," he said. "That's fine."

"I didn't…?"

"Hit me? No."

Aramis sighed and let his head loll limply to the side. "I'm glad."

"Is that why you…? Oh Aramis…" Porthos felt tears in the corners of his eyes. "You shouldn't have. Don't you ever do that again. Don't you dare."

"I'm not hurting you."

"So you're hurting yourself instead?" Porthos asked. "That makes no sense."

He brushed his hand over Aramis' short hair. He stopped suddenly when his fingers touched something wet. He quickly brought his hand up to his eyes. Predictably, he found blood.

"Aramis…" He held is bloody hand up between them.

Aramis lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll…"

He made to sit up.

"Don't," Porthos said. "I'm not having you pass out on me."

Despite Aramis' protests, Porthos helped him sit up leaning against the headboard. He critically peered at his head.

"There's a lot of blood."

"It's normal with head wounds," Aramis said.

Porthos frowned. "I can't even see… can I clean it up?"

"Water."

Porthos bustled around the room, getting a clean cloth and a small basin of water. The water was a dull red by the time he had finished, but tilting Aramis' head towards the lamp he could see the wound itself was only a small nick and the bleeding had stopped entirely.

"Looks like you hit the corner of the post," he explained to Aramis.

"It's fine," Aramis breathed.

"I'm not sure." Porthos frowned. "It bled a lot. Maybe it needs stitches."

"Let me…"

Porthos took Aramis' hand in his and guided it to the back of his head, helping him explore the wound.

"It's fine," Aramis repeated after a few seconds.

"You sure?"

"It'll heal on its own."

"Should I send for a surgeon?"

"No."

Porthos grumbled about keeping an eye on it, but figured there wasn't much to be done in the middle of the night. It didn't look too serious to him. He sat down with his chin in his hands.

"What do we do now?" he asked. Sleeping didn't seem to be an option, but he could see Aramis flagging. He needed to rest.

"Leave me," Aramis whispered.

"To do what?"

"I'll leave in the morning."

"Even if you could. Where would you go?"

Aramis gave a weak shrug. "My family."

"And do what?"

Aramis remained silent.

"If you are thinking anywhere along the lines of _dying in a ditch_ ," Porthos said. "Then cut it out. You're not going to."

"Then what would you have me do?" Aramis looked up at him. Porthos could see that his eyes were swimming with tears.

He sighed. "What do you see?"

A shiver went through Aramis. "You don't have to tell me," Porthos added quickly.

"I see… them."

"The Spanish."

"No. Them… screaming… The screams as they…" He weakly shook his head. "I see Marsac. I see Lazare, Gilles… Laurent…"

Porthos' heart squeezed painfully at the mention of his late friend.

"There's so much blood," Aramis continued. "So much."

"You're safe now," Porthos said, blinking away tears.

"They're all dead."

"But you're not." Porthos reached out to tenderly brush across Aramis' hands.

"But why?" Aramis asked, his voice wavering.

Porthos gave his hands a squeeze.

"You should talk to a priest about that."

Aramis did not even acknowledge his comment. His eyes were drifting again, back to that forest, back to Savoy, to Laurent and the others.

"I see… them. They come… they call… and I… I can't follow…"

Porthos gave him a soft smile. "I'm glad."

Aramis shook his head. "I want to, but… I can't. I don't belong there. But I don't belong here."

"You _do_ belong here," Porthos said firmly. But he could see Aramis' point. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't really alive either.

The tears finally began to fall. Aramis' thin frame was shaking with the force of the sobs. He didn't make a sound, which made his crying somewhat eerie. Porthos had never seen a grown man sob like that, but he'd also never seen anyone cry completely without sound. Porthos slid from the chair and knelt in front of the bed, holding Aramis' hands in his, trying to give him some anchor, some reassurance.

"I don't want to be that… that thing," Aramis gasped out.

"You're no thing."

"I'm dangerous. I need to—"

"You don't need to be tied up," Porthos interrupted sharply. "And if you don't believe me, think what Tréville would say to that. No."

"When I see… them… I want to… I want to kill."

Aramis' breath ground to a shuddering halt after his confession, but Porthos simply continued to lightly stroke his abused wrists.

"And I will not have you hurt yourself any more because of that."

Aramis curled forward as if he had been hit in the stomach, sobbing with renewed vigour, but still ghostly silent. Porthos just sat there, not knowing what to do. He couldn't make it better, he knew that. He couldn't do what Aramis needed most, he couldn't bring them back to life.

"I'm tired," Aramis groaned.

Porthos moved to the bed, sitting down and drawing him into a firm embrace. He shushed him quietly while rubbing circles on his heaving back. He couldn't begin to imagine how hard all of this was for Aramis, but he did know that he deserved so much better.

When Aramis' sobbing seemed to calm down a little, Porthos grabbed his wrists again. His hands easily encircled Aramis' arms.

"I can restrain you," Porthos said. "Much more secure than belts and ropes and all that."

Aramis sniffed.

"I want you to sleep without worry," Porthos added. "I can hold you. Easily."

Aramis' sob caught in his throat.

"You can't sit like that all night," he whispered. Porthos hummed his assent.

"Not very comfortable for either of us." He thought about it for a moment. "Could we try lying down?"

Aramis cleared his throat. "You're not sitting on the floor all night."

"No," Porthos agreed. "I wouldn't have a good grip on you like that."

Nevertheless, he moved Aramis until he was lying down on his side and carefully draped all of the blankets around him again. Finally, he put Aramis' hands on the mattress in front of him.

"What now?" Aramis asked sceptically.

Porthos gnawed on his lower lip. "Would it be alright for me to lie behind you?"

Aramis frowned.

"I could restrain you like that and we could both get some sleep," Porthos explained. "But only if you are comfortable with it."

Aramis looked anything but comfortable.

"Forget it, I'll think of something else," Porthos said.

"I'm… I'm not sure if I'll see it as an attack."

Porthos nodded. Of course. Being touched, being held like that… his mind would probably show him the dead drawing him down, trying to take him away with them. But he was already caught in a constant cycle of panic, so how much would it really change?

"I'm willing to give it a try if you are," Porthos said.

Aramis looked terrified, but eventually, he nodded. "Do it."

Porthos extinguished the lamp. Then he wormed his way in between the pile of blankets and the wall. Aramis held himself very stiffly. Porthos got comfortable on his side and then drew Aramis into an embrace once again, taking a firm hold of his hands. Even through the blankets, he could feel Aramis freeze.

"Shh," he said. "It's not an attack."

Aramis was still bracing himself. His hands were clawing at the blankets. Porthos traced little circles on them with his thumbs.

"Hold them tighter," Aramis ground out.

"I won't hurt you," Porthos said.

"No, but..." Aramis broke off in a contended sigh when Porthos closed his fingers firmly around his wrists.

"It's not an attack," Porthos reminded him.

"Yeah," Aramis breathed, but he still wouldn't let himself relax.

"If there's anything... just tell me," Porthos said. "You're not helpless here."

Aramis sighed again and Porthos thought he could feel his shoulders soften ever so slightly. It was hard to tell through all those blankets. Porthos was beginning to drift off when Aramis spoke again.

"I tried to help."

"Of course you did," Porthos murmured. "You always fight bravely."

"Not fighting. There was... by the time I was… the fight was already over. Afterwards. I tried to help."

"That's good." Porthos really didn't think it was a good idea to talk about this now, but he'd follow Aramis' lead.

"Their wounds... I bandaged... I wanted to stitch. I... I didn't see... I didn't know..."

"Shhh," Porthos said, feeling Aramis' agitation. "You're safe now."

"They were all dead, Porthos," Aramis said. "I bandaged the dead."

Porthos' heart seemed to stop. Images flashed in front of his mind. Aramis in the forest. Aramis moving from corpse to corpse, trying to help. Aramis realising that he was too late, that all was lost. His throat constricted. Aramis...

"Thank you," he finally said. "For doing that for our brothers... for Laurent."

"I didn't do anything," Aramis said. From the waver in his voice Porthos guessed he was crying again. He drew Aramis closer against his body and tightened his embrace.

"You did everything," he said. Aramis breathed out heavily. With the air, the tension seemed to leave his body. Slowly, he melted into Porthos' arms.

"You're safe now," Porthos breathed into his ear.

"I know," Aramis whispered.

Porthos sighed contentedly.

"Good night, Aramis."


	5. Asking for Help

**Asking for Help**

"How are you getting on w—" Porthos stopped mid sentence and slowly raised his hands above his head. He was no stranger to staring down the barrel of a gun, but it didn't usually happen when he entered his room at the garrison. Aramis' room. Aramis who was currently pointing a pistol at him.

"Umm, you want to put that down?" Porthos asked.

Aramis stared at him. He didn't blink and Porthos didn't move.

"That isn't loaded, right?" Porthos asked, eyeing the pistol nervously.

Aramis narrowed his eyes. "Oh, but nobody would trust me with ammunition now, would they?" He was smirking, but his voice was low and treacherous.

"Alright," Porthos said, tentatively lowering his hands. "What have I done now? If you didn't like your food, take it up with Serge. No point shooting the messenger. If the shouting this morning interrupted your beauty sleep, well, it was your own damn horse causing a ruckus. And I wasn't involved at all. So what have I done to deserve a bullet to the head?"

Aramis huffed out a humourless laugh.

"You can do whatever the hell you want," he said and dropped the pistol onto the table next to the other ones he'd been cleaning. "I can't even hit you from two feet away."

He held out his hand and sure enough, it was shaking like a cat in a thunderstorm.

Porthos stepped closer and briefly squeezed Aramis' hand before turning his attention to the weapons on the table. He held an old wheellock pistol up to the light.

"Spotless," he observed. "Did you have to replace the pan cover?"

"Nah, made it work," Aramis grumbled.

Porthos patted his shoulder, but for once Aramis did not lean into his touch. Porthos smiled. "You're doing really well, you know."

Aramis snorted. "Yes, really well at work we usually leave to particularly useless recruits."

"That's not true." Porthos frowned. "Laurent took great pride in clean weapons."

Aramis chucked a dirty rag in his general direction. "Well, I'm not Laurent, am I?" he asked as if the mere suggestion was an insult.

"No, you're not."

Porthos lowered his eyes. He'd never see Laurent again, his quiet smile when he watched Porthos do well at something. He'd never hear his calm words when he explained the workings of the garrison, never get that reassurance again. He'd kept busy and he had Aramis now, but Laurent's loss still hurt.

"Sorry," Aramis said, sounding genuinely ashamed. "That was thoughtless."

"That's alright," Porthos said quickly. No point getting Aramis all upset. "You need help getting these back to the armoury?"

"There's nothing wrong with my legs," Aramis quipped.

Porthos came with him anyways. While Aramis was steady on his legs by now, his rare appearances in the courtyard were still a bit of a spectacle. He much preferred to stay in his room and whenever he left it, people craned their necks to get a good look at him. The recruits made no attempt to conceal their curiosity, and while the musketeers were kind and welcoming, Porthos did not feel comfortable letting Aramis go out on his own. He was getting better, but it was still a fragile peace and Porthos would not give anyone the chance to break it.

Aramis' kept his composure while they were out, nodding to the many well-wishers and even exchanging a few words with some of his old companions. But as soon as the door had closed behind them, he dropped heavily onto a chair. He was so uncomfortable outside of the room; even the briefest of excursions wore him out.

Porthos poured him a generous measure of wine and stood behind him to rub his shoulders. They were often sore now that Aramis spent so much time sitting down. A man wasn't built for that sort of life, much less a musketeer.

For a moment, Porthos could feel Aramis' shoulders relax as he worked out the knots in the muscles. Then Aramis sighed.

"Sit down, Porthos. We need to talk."

Porthos froze. "What's wrong?"

"I need to ask you a favour."

"Anything. What can I—"

"Just sit down. It's nothing serious."

"Are you al—"

"Everything is fine."

Despite Aramis' words, Porthos scrutinised his face and body for any sign of discomfort as he took his seat. The night hadn't been a bad one. Those had become rare. Aramis' dreams still woke Porthos a few times each week, but the screaming had all but stopped.

"What's wrong?" he repeated, leaning forward in his chair.

Aramis stroked his beard thoughtfully. He'd finally let Porthos trim it and while it was nowhere near as neat as it used to be, he at least didn't look like a wild man any more.

"I need your help with Tréville," he said.

"Of course," Porthos said. "I can fetch him right now, I think he's back from the palace."

"No, I need you to talk to him for me. He doesn't trust me to know my own mind."

"He does trust you."

Aramis gave him a small smile. "I don't blame him; it's only natural when... But I'd like your help to convince him that I know what I'm asking in this matter."

"Sure," Porthos said before conscious thought had a chance to intervene. "What is the matter?" he added more cautiously.

"I want to move out of this room."

"What? But why? It's your room!" Porthos was flabbergasted.

"It's his room as well." Aramis worried his lip between his teeth, looking over to Porthos' bed that had once been Marsac's. "I need to leave."

"Leave?" Porthos asked sharply.

"Not the garrison," Aramis clarified. "Not unless Tréville makes me."

"He would never," Porthos said with conviction.

"He has every right. I'm not exactly a musketeer any more."

"You are—"

"Leave it," Aramis said, cutting him off. "I want to... get better. And it's not working. Not here."

"But you're safe here." Porthos realised how plaintive he sounded. He just couldn't understand why Aramis would abandon their sanctuary. "You've improved so much in here."

Aramis closed his eyes and shook his head. "It's... this room. It's driving me mad. I can feel his presence everywhere; I can see him... his bed, his… everything. I keep waiting for him to come back." He sighed. "There's no going back. I feel like I'm trying to fit into a life that isn't mine any more."

"It is yours," Porthos insisted. "You and me, in this room. Look at how far you've come. You're up and talking and doing work."

"And now I want to move on."

"But why rush it? You're exhausted every time you go out there. You're safe in here. Why ruin that?"

Aramis looked at him with that shy half smile. Porthos had never expected to call anything about Aramis shy, but now he was growing quite fond of that smile. After all the fear and pain, it was a positive emotion and yet more proof that Aramis was getting better.

"Is Lazare's room still empty?" Aramis asked quite abruptly.

"The one next to the stables?" Porthos asked back. "You don't want that. It smells of horse dung."

"I don't think I'd mind."

Porthos could not understand that at all. Apart from horses themselves, horse dung had to be about the worst thing in the world. And to live right next to it... he'd much prefer Aramis to choose any other room for them if they had to move at all.

"But... the windows," he added. "Right at the courtyard. You'd have people walking past, poking their heads in all the time. It's better here; you like your privacy."

And Porthos liked him not having to face the others all the time. After that incident in the armoury, Leblanc and his cronies had not caused any more trouble, but he did not fancy giving them the chance.

"I think maybe I need that," Aramis said. "To be... closer to everyone. I could watch you when you train."

Porthos didn't return his smile. He wasn't prone to overthinking things, but even his paltry brain could point out at least a dozen reasons why this was a bad idea.

"You agreed to help me with Tréville," Aramis reminded him.

"Before I realised you'd..." Porthos clamped his mouth shut when he realised he'd been about to refer to Aramis' mental state.

Aramis still knew what he'd been about to say. "That I'd try to become sane again?" he asked pointedly. "Cause I'm not going to do that shut away in this room. I need to be part of the garrison again."

"You are!"

"An active part of the garrison. You know it makes sense."

"If it's such a good idea, why do you need me to convince Tréville?"

"Because he's even more desperate to keep me safe and locked away than you are."

"Maybe he's right," Porthos grumbled.

"Let's give it a try," Aramis said. "You'll see, it will be good for us both."

Porthos very much doubted that. He'd worry his head off every step of the way. But he felt awkward arguing with Aramis, a man so recently risen from his sickbed. If Aramis wanted this, he'd be there to support him and to pick up the pieces when it inevitably went wrong.

"Fine," he said. "It will be a tight squeeze for us in that room, but if you insist..."

"It's just me moving," Aramis said.

Porthos' mouth dropped open. "Just you? But... why? You... you are so well... now... and..." He couldn't even form sentences any more. This was insanity!

Aramis smiled and put a hand on Porthos' knee. "Porthos... thank you for all you have done," he said. "Your patience, your kindness, everything. You've given me all this. You have brought me back to life. But I can't get better with you always by my side as my nursemaid."

"Your nursemaid," Porthos repeated.

Aramis nodded. "You know what I mean. For both of us it will be better—"

Porthos jumped up so suddenly his chair toppled and clattered to the floor.

"I thought we were friends!" he roared.

Aramis stared up at him, momentarily dumbstruck.

"Porthos..." he said eventually.

"Your nursemaid, my arse!" Porthos shouted.

"I'll still be around," Aramis said soothingly. "You said it'll be easy to stick your head in my window. But your duty here—"

"Duty! Stick your duty where you want!

"You can get back to—"

"Who says I want to get back to anything?"

He stormed out of the room, throwing the door shut so violently the wine cups danced on the table.

"I thought you'd be happy," Aramis shouted after him. "Happy to be free of me."

Porthos didn't go back, not even to bring Aramis food. Serge would take care of that. It wasn't like Aramis needed help any more. Apparently, he didn't like nursemaids. Fine. Who was Porthos to force his company on anyone?

Friends. He'd genuinely believed that. Weeks spent in that room, weeks spent together. He didn't have to do that, Tréville had told him time and again. But he did. He had fed and washed Aramis, had done everything for him. And somehow he'd fooled himself into believing that was enough. Of course it wasn't. This was Aramis. Of course he didn't need friends. And he certainly didn't need Porthos. Laurent had always said to work hard and then he'd be alright. He'd earn respect, earn their love eventually. Well he had worked hard and... nothing.

Serge told him that Aramis was asking for him. Porthos told him to tell Aramis he was busy and left it at that. He left the garrison whenever he could to sit in some tavern or to simply walk around Paris. He had other things he could do. He didn't need to spend his evenings twiddling his thumbs, playing nursemaid.

Porthos had told the captain he was moving back to his old room when he pleaded with him to let Aramis go through with his plan. He shared with different men now, new recruits he barely knew. His former roommates had received their commissions while he was away. He tried not to dwell on just how far he had fallen behind. The king didn't give commissions to nursemaids.

When Aramis carried his belongings down the stairs a few days later, Porthos sought shelter in the armoury, watching him from the shadows. Aramis was still thin and pale, but he held his head high. He declined help when Bernard offered it. Porthos had to keep himself from running to his aid when Aramis stumbled the second time he went back up the stairs. Aramis wasn't used to such exertions any more.

At least he'd have a pleasant room to go to. Despite everything, Porthos had seen to that. He'd cleaned it and aired it and removed what little remained of Lazare's possessions. He'd made sure there was somewhere for Aramis to keep those precious books. There was even a bottle of Aramis' favourite wine. He'd been happy the day Aramis expressed a preference for a certain vintage. It had been proof that Aramis was enjoying something again.

Porthos watched Aramis close the shutters almost immediately, shutting himself away. He hoped that Aramis was enjoying this, his new freedom. Even though they apparently weren't friends after all, he still cared for the man.

The next morning, Aramis was at muster. Porthos hadn't expected to see him and found himself standing at the other end of the yard quite by accident. He spent the entire time balancing on the tips of his toes to cast furtive glances over the heads of the assembled men. Aramis was impeccably dressed, pauldron on his shoulder once more. His beard was still too long and his hair too short, but for anyone who didn't know, he had to seem like any other musketeer.

Tréville gave one short nod in Aramis' direction when he first stepped into the yard, and then proceeded with muster as usual. Porthos was assigned to guard duties at the palace and turned towards the gate as soon as the captain dismissed them so he could walk there in time. He lingered just long enough to hear Tréville call Aramis into his office to help with paperwork.

The day passed without incident, giving Porthos plenty of time to mull things over. The captain hadn't seemed surprised to see Aramis. Had he told him to be there? Had it been his condition to the move? Had it been Aramis' wish? An active member of the garrison had to attend morning muster after all.

Porthos worried. Paperwork. There was no way Aramis would be able to help with the paperwork. Hands that trembled too much to fire a shot would be no use with a quill. And that would frustrate Aramis. Useless, not good enough. Porthos knew what that felt like and he didn't wish it on Aramis.

He didn't see Aramis that night. By the time he got back to the garrison, the shutters were closed again. He did hear Serge grumble about him though. It seemed Aramis had gone through their medical supplies and come up with an almighty shopping list of things they had run out of. Serge was complaining about how he didn't have a day to spare to run after this herb or that, but Porthos recognised the fondness behind it all. They were both happy that Aramis had found something to do.

Porthos kept up his new habit of spending his evenings in the taverns. Daily games of cards did his finances the world of good. During the day, he avoided Aramis as much as possible. He suspected that Aramis did much the same. They still saw each other. They ate their meals in the same room. Their paths crossed in the yard. Encounters were unavoidable since Aramis still didn't leave the garrison. But they never spoke. Porthos didn't know how Aramis spent his days and told himself he didn't much care. He was just another soldier in the regiment.

One evening, Porthos stepped into the stables in search of a broom. It wasn't where it was supposed to be. He clenched his fists. Some people didn't seem to have even the most rudimentary understanding of tidiness and order. In the dim light of the setting sun, he finally spotted the broom at the far end of the low building, where it definitely didn't belong.

Wishing plague and cholera upon whoever had left the broom there, Porthos braced himself and walked towards it, careful to stay in the middle of the corridor between the stalls. Out of reach of kicking hooves and chomping teeth, or so he hoped.

"Porthos."

His hand flew to his sword, then relaxed when Aramis stepped from the darkness at the back of the last stall. Porthos took a big step back. He knew that stall housed a particular demon, Aramis' hell beast of a horse. He had no desire to become her latest victim.

"Aramis," he replied curtly and picked up the broom. He turned on his heel when Aramis spoke again, still stroking his horse's head over his shoulder.

"Thank you. For talking to Tréville, for the room…"

He made no reply to Porthos' grumbled comment about his parentage, just droned on.

"I should have said it earlier, and for that I apologise. You were always there, every moment I can remember clearly, you were there. Thank you Porthos. I owe you my life."

"Oh, shut up." Porthos was not so easily mollified. Aramis had said his piece some days ago. They were done. He started to walk back towards the door, but Aramis took a step forward. The horse followed and suddenly Porthos found his path half blocked by that beast.

"Thank you for everything," Aramis continued, fingers tangled in the beast's mane. "Thank you for your kindness, your—"

"It was no kindness," Porthos said impatiently. "You were a means to an end. I figured I could get my commission if I caught Tréville's eye. Now stop it."

"Oh." Aramis seemed at a loss for words. A rather welcome change.

"There you have it. I'm not some saint and you don't need to fake your gratitude."

"It didn't work," Aramis said. "I held you back instead."

Porthos huffed. "They'll kick me out anyways."

He made to leave, but suddenly another huge head appeared. Cavernous nostrils snorting into his face, gigantic teeth very clearly trying to tear his throat out. Porthos jumped back with an undignified yelp.

Immediately, Aramis stepped between him and the horse. He talked softly to it while Porthos quickly confirmed that no damage had been done to his face or throat. He hated horses.

"This is Joseph," Aramis said, feeding the thing a quarter of an apple from his hand. He was asking to have his fingers bitten off, as far as Porthos was concerned. "Not like him at all to scare people like that. You like a snack, don't you? That's what you were looking for, isn't it, my boy?"

Porthos backed off all the way to the wall, warily watching the finger-long teeth chomp on the apple while holding the broom out in front of him. Aramis stroked the horse's face and neck, still talking softly to it.

"They are very sensitive," Aramis said more loudly. "They get spooked easily. They know when you're nervous and it scares them as well. They are herd animals, you know. Whenever one of them is scared, it's usually a danger to them all."

"Hmm." Porthos couldn't imagine much that would threaten an animal the size and weight of half a dozen men.

"Want to give him that?" Aramis asked and held out another piece of apple to him.

Porthos would rather fight the entire Red Guards on his own, but he could hardly admit that.

"Speak to him," Aramis encouraged.

"Umm, hello Joseph," Porthos said, feeling stupid. Talking to a horse. A horse that was probably about to bite his hand off.

"Hold your hand out flat, like this," Aramis explained. Porthos barely glanced at his hand. He was way too close to the beast now to be able to take his eyes away from it.

Aramis dropped the apple into his hand and gently flattened his fingers.

"Relax," he said. "Remember, they can feel your nerves."

Porthos froze and tried very hard to not be nervous.

On Aramis' command, the huge head swivelled towards his outstretched hand. Porthos tried to brace himself for the pain. To his surprise, he didn't feel sharp teeth at all. Instead, soft lips brushed his hand. The horse deftly picked up the apple, its soft whiskers tickling Porthos' palm. Porthos released a breath when it finally lifted its head again, leaving all his fingers intact. Aramis gently ushered the horse back into the darkness of its stall.

"Bad experience?" he asked.

Porthos chuckled, much relieved now that no horse was invading his space. "You can say that. By all nine of my toes."

Aramis winced in sympathy. "Ouch. I'm sorry."

Porthos shrugged. "Was a long time ago."

"Hey girl," Aramis called. "Come here, gorgeous. I want you to meet someone."

Another horse appeared, Aramis' mare by the sound of it. Aramis ran his fingers through her mane.

"This is Angelina," he said. "She threw Leblanc today. Yes, you did, my love. The fool thinks he can win her over. But you showed him, didn't you? I was making sure she's fine. I'd skewer him if he'd done her any harm."

Porthos took a very careful half-step forward. "You like her," he observed.

Aramis thoughtfully stroked her enormous nose. "Every musketeer loves his horse. They are our lives. Save our lives more often than not."

Porthos sighed. He was the fool here. Signing up to a cavalry regiment. More fool Tréville for letting him do it. He'd never be a musketeer, not with his fear of horses.

Porthos cleared his throat. He did want to be a musketeer. He wanted that commission more than anything else in his life.

"Aramis," he said. "Can I ask you a favour?"

Aramis turned to face him over the nose of his horse. "You can ask."

Porthos swallowed heavily. He had to do this, he knew that. It was embarrassing, but it wouldn't get any less so as time went on. If his time with the musketeers went on much longer at all. Without Aramis to care for, he'd run out of excuses to skip the riding lessons for recruits. If his training was to progress, he'd be assigned missions further away, missions he couldn't complete on foot. He knew he had to ask, but that didn't make it any easier. He bit down sharply on his cheek. He'd wiped that man's behind, for heaven's sake, surely that erased all embarrassment between them.

"Can you teach me how to ride?"

Aramis tapped his horse's neck and clicked his tongue, which she apparently understood as the signal for her to retreat. Then he smiled at Porthos, a full, broad smile.

"It would be an honour," he said. "Sunrise tomorrow. Meet us in the yard."

Porthos watched him saunter out of the stables. Saunter, actually saunter, looking remarkably like the Aramis of old.

Porthos woke feeling like he hadn't rested at all. His sleep had been haunted by stomping hooves and gnashing teeth. He groaned into his pillow when he realised his waking hours would be much the same. Nevertheless, he was in the yard as soon as the first light appeared. He watched Aramis coax an equally reluctant horse out of the stables. They'd make a fine pair, one not keen on riding, the other not keen on being ridden.

"Look, Joseph," Aramis said. "There's your friend Porthos."

Porthos snorted. Aramis wouldn't accept his friendship, but he'd make him be friends with a beast that had tried to take a bite of him. Strange logic.

So this was Joseph. Porthos eyed the horse warily. It was huge. Could probably take his head off in one bite. It did however look thoroughly uninterested in doing that. Porthos didn't know much about horses, but if he were to guess, this one was half asleep. He also noticed that it wasn't black. He hadn't seen that the previous night, preoccupied with self-preservation as he had been. While its mane and tail were black, the horse itself was brown. It even had a small white spot between the eyes and one white foot. Not all demon, maybe.

Aramis had stopped in front of him, holding the horse by a rope. Porthos would have worried about him not having a firm enough grip on it, but the horse seemed unlikely to attack.

"So," he said. "I'm supposed to ride it."

"Him," Aramis corrected.

"So it's a… a stallion?" Porthos asked, somewhat alarmed. Why couldn't he have a gentle little lady? Then he remembered that Aramis' horse was a lady horse and she was well-known to be anything but gentle.

"He's a gelding," Aramis said.

Porthos grimaced. "Poor guy."

"Most war horses are," Aramis explained. "It makes them calmer and more sociable."

"The calmer thing certainly worked," Porthos observed. Joseph appeared to be napping where he stood.

"Yes, he's a fine example of that," Aramis agreed. "That's the reason he's stabled with Angelina. She's a bit… temperamental at times. He calms her down. And by gelding horses you make sure they aren't distracted by the ladies."

"Should have tried that with you," Porthos mumbled under his breath, then bit his tongue. It wasn't like Aramis was chasing skirts any more.

Aramis huffed out a laugh. "The superior males of the species are kept intact. They need to pass on their good looks."

Porthos chuckled, but not for long. It was difficult to ignore the looming threat.

"Better get on with riding him then," he said.

Aramis held up his hand. "Slow down. No riding without grooming him first."

"Right," Porthos said. When Aramis didn't elaborate, he added, "I don't know how to do that."

"Easy," Aramis said.

Not the word Porthos would have used to describe picking up a horse's feet and digging around in them with a curved nail, but even he had to admit that Joseph did not cause any trouble at all. At least, Porthos guessed, he was less likely to kick while he was balancing on three legs. All the while, Aramis explained things to him. How to tie a knot that was quick to release, how to get a horse to lift its foot, what a healthy foot should look like… Porthos liked that part. He liked learning new things.

He wasn't sure about cleaning Joseph's coat at first. He was way too close for comfort and didn't want to hurt the animal. That was sure to cause painful retaliation. Again and again, Aramis told him to be more forceful, to not just tickle the horse. Porthos tried until he was sure he was scraping the poor thing raw, but Aramis assured him he was doing fine. Of course, it only took a moment for Joseph to completely invalidate that praise. Porthos was brushing his neck, when the horse bared his teeth. Porthos jumped back.

"No, no, that's good," Aramis said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He enjoyed that, look, he's smiling."

"Awful lot of teeth for a smile," Porthos grumbled.

"I think you found an itchy spot," Aramis said. He stepped forward and rubbed the area Porthos had been brushing. "He likes a good scratch there."

Porthos found he liked combing Joseph's mane best. It reminded him of those times long ago when he had combed Flea's hair. Joseph seemed to like it too. Porthos wasn't so sure about the tail, but Aramis showed him how to stand to the side of the horse, out of reach of kicking hooves. Not that Joseph seemed all that likely to kick.

"You like to be pampered, don't you?" Aramis scratched Joseph between the ears. "Here, give him that," he said to Porthos, producing a carrot. Porthos bent his fingers backwards as far as they would go, but managed not to flinch when Joseph's teeth moved in for the kill. To his great relief, it was only the carrot he ended up crunching on.

Aramis proceeded to talk him through how to check the fit of the halter and had Porthos remove it and put it onto Joseph several times. Porthos was wary at first, having his fingers so close to those sharp teeth, but the activity did not seem to bother Joseph in the least and soon he got more confident with his newly learned skills.

"You can lead him around the yard now," Aramis said and released the knot he had used to tie Joseph to a post.

When Aramis handed him the rope, Porthos held it tight and wrapped it around his hand several times. He wasn't going to let that horse run wild.

"Don't do that." Aramis' fingers were on his in an instant.

"But I need to hold him," Porthos protested.

"You're not holding him. You couldn't. If he decided to bolt, he'd just drag you behind. You'd get seriously hurt if you can't let go."

"Alright," Porthos said, dropping the rope like hot coals. He'd seen men dragged behind horses. It was not something he wished to experience himself.

Aramis caught the rope. "It doesn't mean you can't lead him. But it's done through trust, not force. Like this."

He made a soft clucking noise and started to move forward with Joseph. He stopped a few feet away. Porthos had never thought of it like that, but now that he did it seemed a miracle to him that men could lead and direct big beasts like that.

Aramis didn't make him ride that day, nor the next. They practiced cleaning Joseph until Porthos was comfortable. Then Aramis explained the saddle and bridle to him. Porthos was impressed with his patience. Never once did Aramis ridicule him for his cluelessness or his fear. He would repeat the simplest action over and over again if it was necessary for Porthos to get it right. Whenever Porthos got frustrated with his slow process in one area, Aramis would switch to something else.

Slowly, Porthos relaxed around Joseph. He still wasn't keen on leading him back into the stables, and certainly not on having Aramis' mare rush at him to welcome her friend, but out on their own, he was fine. He realised that Joseph would indeed do very little without a snack. He certainly liked his food. In that, they were a perfect match.

When he did finally mount Joseph, Porthos felt supremely uncomfortable. It was odd to be sitting so high up, Aramis' head at about the same height as his thighs. He wanted to clamp his legs against the saddle for balance, terrified he'd fall off, but he also wanted to hold them as far apart as possible, for fear of spurring Joseph into some sort of neck-breaking sprint.

Aramis didn't comment on his fears, though they must have been plain on his face. He calmly adjusted Porthos seat and his hold on the reins. He talked constantly, explaining things to him. Porthos liked that. Aramis' voice gave him something to focus on, new information to process all the time.

When Aramis started to lead Joseph around, Porthos lost all interest in conversation. It was the strangest feeling to be going forward without actually moving his legs. He could feel Joseph's muscles shift beneath him, which made it a whole lot stranger than sitting in a cart.

"Relax," Aramis said. "I've got you."

"You said yourself that you can't hold him," Porthos hissed.

"Then trust him. He doesn't want to hurt you."

"Easy for you to say," Porthos mumbled. Aramis wasn't in danger of breaking his bones falling off a bolting horse.

Aramis chuckled softly.

"What?" Porthos asked. He was swaying like a boat on the Seine and was looking for something to steady himself. He knew not to tug the reins, and figured it was a very bad idea to pull at the mane.

"You never hesitate to throw yourself into a fight. You go up against entire taverns full of Paris' worst with no one but a drunk by your side, but put you on a horse and you fear every scratch."

"It's not a scratch I'm afraid of, it's breaking my neck. And he's a very good swordsman, you know."

Aramis ignored the last part, but Porthos knew he was well aware of that fact. Aramis was spending less time in his room, and more time in the yard. Sometimes he would find an excuse in cleaning weaponry or horses, but often he would simply sit and watch them train. He was reluctant to offer advice unless asked for his opinion directly. Porthos asked often. Aramis was an experienced musketeer and what he said was always valuable. Slowly other recruits warmed to him as well.

Porthos hoped it would be enough. He could see the pinched look on Tréville's face when he observed Aramis sitting in the shadows instead of participating in their drills. Porthos never tired of marvelling at how far Aramis had come from the shaking, emaciated bundle of a man curled up in his bed. Aramis was an active of member of the garrison once more. Porthos saw the progress he made, the small steps when his hand became steadier and his gait more assertive. But it was slow progress. It was summer already and nobody could pretend Aramis was fully fit for the duties of a musketeer.

They continued their early morning riding lessons. The yard was empty before breakfast and that benefitted both of them. Porthos figured he would never be the best rider, but as Aramis pointed out, that wasn't necessary, as long as he was confident. And Porthos couldn't deny that his confidence grew steadily. As mortifying as it had been at the time, he was glad to have asked Aramis for help. Simultaneously, he began to enjoy sword practice a lot more and he figured if he could improve his shooting at the same rate, he'd be a fully-fledged musketeer by the end of the year. Maybe one day Aramis could help him with that, too.

When Porthos groomed Joseph, Aramis would often do the same with Angelina. Porthos observed with interest that Aramis' hands seemed to shake less when he was with his horse. He also got used to the constant chatter. While he and Joseph went about their business in silence, both Aramis and his mare needed to keep up some sort of conversation. It amused Porthos, particularly since he was only able to understand half of it.

One morning, while Porthos saddled his horse, Aramis did the same. He smiled at Porthos' questioning look.

"Thought it was time you went for a hack," he said. "No point riding around in circles forever."

Porthos hesitated. It was one thing to ride in circles, like Aramis said, but to actually go out and do it around the streets of Paris… He swallowed his fears. It was exactly what he needed to learn to become a musketeer. So far Aramis had been an excellent teacher. Porthos trusted his judgement, he trusted Joseph, and he trusted his own abilities.

"Alright," he said. His voice sounded annoyingly shaky.

Aramis smiled at him again and pointed to Angelina who was excitedly dancing on the spot. "Trust me, you're not the one who's going to have problems here. Madame's going to be a handful."

She was. Aramis was barely in the saddle when she seemed to try everything in her power to get him out of it. Porthos worried at first, but soon realised that both horse and rider were enjoying themselves immensely. Aramis' bickering found its answer in her bucking. Even Joseph followed their shenanigans with interest, but remained as placid as ever.

They didn't go far. A short ride through the fields behind the Luxembourg Gardens and then back through the city. They trotted slowly past Saint Sulpice. Aramis took off his hat and made a small bow in the direction of the church.

"It's strange to be outside again," he said. "It's been a long time."

"She certainly likes it," Porthos said, nodding at his horse.

Aramis chuckled. "She better, now. Can't have her getting any ideas of going off in search of a nicer fellow. But I think we sorted out our differences."

He had barely finished when Angelina leaped into the air and Aramis struggled to keep his seat. Laughing and cursing, he regained his balance.

Porthos guffawed. "You sure about that? Don't think she'll let you off that easily."

"No, maybe not," Aramis said, suddenly solemn.

"You alright?" Porthos asked. "It wasn't too much?"

"Of course not."

"Thank you, Aramis," Porthos said sincerely. "You really didn't have to do this."

They slowly manoeuvred their horses through the morning crowd on Rue du Vieux-Colombier. They were nearly at the gate when Aramis replied.

"Well, I couldn't let your first real ride be with the drunk."

Porthos raised his eyebrows. "His name is Athos."

"Is it?" Aramis asked, innocence personified. "That's not what stood out to me."

He pulled ahead, smirking. Porthos was left shaking his head. One day, he'd properly introduce those two.


	6. Heat Exhaustion

**Heat Exhaustion**

Porthos wondered how much a man could sweat. At first, it had been individual drops running down his back, but now it felt like the whole of the Seine had somehow found its way into his shirt. He yearned for a nice, cold ale or two.

No such luck. The King showed no sign of tiring of entertaining some diplomat. A very important ally, Athos had said. Important enough to warrant having the entire musketeers' regiment on parade in the boiling heat for what felt like hours. Not that Porthos begrudged the King his entertainment or indeed France the important ally, but it really was impossibly hot.

While their heavy leather uniforms were practical and offered good protection in a fight, they weren't made for this. If this went on much longer, Porthos was convinced Serge would be able to serve him up as stew for dinner. He certainly felt very well-stewed. Stewed or roasted. Maybe he was being roasted like a suckling pig and his skin would turn all crispy. A rather one-sided roasting though. You had to turn the pig to cook it evenly, not let it get singed on one side.

Yet another salty drop rolled into Porthos' eye and he blinked it vigorously to alleviate the sting. It was about as much movement as he dared. Tréville had made it abundantly clear that nobody was to move a muscle and that he would not tolerate any departure from protocol. Aramis said this diplomat was big on discipline and the King needed to showcase France's military power every time he came to visit. Porthos feared the main impression would be an overpowering stench should the man dare to inspect the troops.

They stood in two long rows, musketeers in the front, recruits in the back. It was a real honour to be here as a recruit. Occasions of state were usually the realm of commissioned musketeers, but... Nobody had said it out loud, but of course they all knew that there simply weren't enough musketeers to make much of an impression right now.

Aramis stood directly in front of him. Porthos wondered if Tréville had arranged that deliberately. He concluded that he probably had. Porthos liked that. He liked being close to Aramis. Not that it looked like Aramis needed him. The musketeer stood still as a statue, despite having to wear the blue cloak on top of his uniform.

Yet another layer. Porthos smiled, then quickly schooled his features into the required neutral expression again. Maybe Aramis was finally warm. He was always cold, always seeking the sun or a fire like a cat whenever he wasn't wrapped up in his multiple blankets. Maybe this would finally do the trick.

The thought didn't distract Porthos from his discomfort for long. There had to be puddles of sweat in his boots by now. Ankle deep at least. He wriggled his toes to assess the situation, but couldn't really tell anything definitive. He wrinkled his nose imagining the reek once they were all back at the garrison and taking off their boots.

Porthos stole a glance down the line of recruits, but couldn't see Athos without actually turning his head, which he knew wasn't an option. He appreciated the captain's trust in them as recruits and wouldn't disappoint him. Athos would be alright. In the months since he'd joined the regiment, there had been very little that made the slightest dent in Athos' stoicism. Considering how well he fought while dead drunk, a bit of heat was probably of no concern to him. And considering how acerbic he was when hung over. Acerbic. Aramis had taught him that word and Porthos thought it fitted Athos perfectly. He liked how sharp and precise it sounded. Just like Athos.

At least Tréville had allowed them their hats. Porthos guessed he should be thankful for that. He didn't want to imagine how uncomfortable it would be to have the sun in his eyes the whole time. Not that his hat was terribly comfortable any more. It felt too small all of a sudden, like it had shrunk in the heat. Porthos' head throbbed. The hat seemed like an iron band, squeezing out his brains.

The King had a pavilion of course. Porthos didn't begrudge him that. His delicate white skin would probably blister and burn in this sun. He thought about Athos again. He really was terribly pale. Aramis said he was a nobleman. Well, Aramis said he was a nitid ninny and a poncey prick, but that meant much the same. He hoped Athos' skin would be more resilient than the King's.

Porthos almost envied the liveried lackeys. Not that he wanted to trade his career with the musketeers for their life of boredom and bowing, but at least they got to stand in the shade. Even the pack of hunting dogs the King also felt he needed to display were allowed to rest under some nearby trees. But they were musketeers after all, France's best and hardiest soldiers.

A loud thump interrupted his thoughts.

 _Athos._

"Eyes front!" Tréville barked.

Porthos turned his head ever so slightly and out of the corner of his eye he saw a body sprawled onto the dusty ground. Athos. Definitely Athos. Porthos' legs twitched. He needed to go and help Athos.

Tréville glared at Porthos. His eyes seemed to bore into his skull. _No,_ he mouthed.

Porthos tried to put his entire desperate plea into his eyes. He had to get Athos out of the sun.

Tréville snarled at him. His reply was wordless, but certainly not lacking in clarity. Tréville knew. He had seen. Certainly, the king had seen, the diplomat had seen, everyone had seen. And it was embarrassing enough as it was, without Porthos adding to it by breaking formation.

Porthos' every instinct was to ignore Tréville and take care of his friend.

He couldn't. He had to trust Tréville. He had to. He knew Tréville cared about his men. He'd seen it first hand with Aramis. He knew Tréville wouldn't let one of them come to harm. Never. He'd seen the captain blame himself for that Spanish attack at Savoy and that happened when he was far away and couldn't possibly have done anything. He wouldn't let Athos die right in front of him.

Nobody was dying. Porthos had to get a grip of his thoughts. Athos had merely taken unwell. That's what Athos called it. It was only natural. After all, Porthos, who was never unwell, had a headache. And he knew that Athos did never not have a headache, so this must be even worse for him. No wonder he'd had a little funny spell.

Athos would be alright. He had to be.

And yet Porthos was itching to make sure that he was.

Athos had been doing so well. He was the best recruit by far, and calmly bested most of the musketeers with the sword. He claimed he'd never been a soldier before, but nobody could deny his God-given talent. Though he never sought any attention, men looked to him for guidance. Above all, Athos took his duties seriously. Porthos frequently saw him sober up in the blink of an eye at morning muster. For him to have passed out on parade, he must be seriously unwell.

It seemed to take hours before Tréville finally released them. Porthos was on his knees next to Athos before the men next to him had moved a muscle.

Without even stopping to check on him, Porthos picked up his friend and carried him into the shade. He laid Athos flat onto the ground beneath a grizzled yew tree and removed his hat, fanning Athos' poor red face.

Athos' hair was sopping wet and stuck up in odd angles. His eyelids fluttered when Porthos ripped open his doublet, but he didn't wake.

"Come on, Athos," Porthos said, shaking his shoulder.

Athos groaned.

Porthos shushed him. "You're alright. Let me get you out of this."

He gently manoeuvred Athos out of his leathers. To his surprise, Athos' skin was cold and clammy. Worried, Porthos felt for Athos' pulse. He was no expert, but it felt pretty weak to him.

Porthos unlaced Athos' damp shirt, trying to get him out of as much of his clothing as possible.

"I'd rather you didn't."

Porthos looked up and was met with steely pale eyes. Slowly Athos raised himself up into a sitting position.

"My thanks for your timely intervention, but I do not require further assistance," Athos said.

Porthos smiled. He certainly sounded like he was getting back to himself.

"You passed out on parade," he explained.

"And for that I shall apologise to Captain Tréville," Athos replied.

"He'll understand," Porthos said. "It really is terribly hot."

"Nonetheless, no reason to break formation," Athos said. "I took unwell. An unacceptable dereliction of duty."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to see you back on your feet," Porthos said. "Don't worry about that. We were all feeling the heat."

"And yet none of the others found themselves fainting."

"It was only a matter of time," Porthos said. He stopped Athos from rising with a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy, mate. You were out for a while."

Athos' lips tightened into a thin line of discontent, but before he could say anything, Porthos felt Aramis approach. He held out his hand for the water he knew Aramis had managed to procure from somewhere. They were a good team like that, they didn't even need to voice their needs any more for the other to fulfil them. They'd spent so much time together, they simply knew.

Porthos was surprised when Aramis didn't place a cup or water skin into his hand. He turned just in time to watch Aramis chuck the water straight at Athos instead.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted while Athos tried to blink the water from his eyes.

Aramis stalked off without a word, leaving Porthos flabbergasted.

The empty goblet rolled uselessly on the ground.

"What was that all about?" Porthos asked Aramis' retreating back. There was no reply, no explanation for the act of mindless aggression against a friend who was already down.

"I'm so sorry," he said to Athos. "I don't know what got into him."

Athos straightened his sodden shirt and tried to smooth down his hair. "I'd much prefer a bottle of wine," he said dismissively.

Porthos frowned. "You think that's wise?" he asked. "It's only… you had rather a lot last night and I was thinking that maybe the wine—"

"It was merely the heat," Athos said, getting to his feet. "And as you can see, I am much recovered."

Porthos didn't see that at all. Instead, he saw Athos looking exhausted for the rest of the day. He saw him knead his forehead repeatedly although he denied being in pain. He saw the skin on his nose and cheeks turn bright red while the rest of his face was even paler than usual.

Athos would never admit that he was unwell and Porthos didn't press the matter. He simply watched his friend drown his misery in wine and tried in vain to make him take some water as well.

That night, Porthos went to sleep thinking he might have to say something to Tréville. He wasn't one to grass on a friend, he really wasn't, but Athos was ill and clearly wouldn't admit to that. Athos would go to Tréville and apologise and claim he was fine, when he really, really wasn't. And Porthos didn't want him to get hurt. He shuddered thinking back to that awful thump, to the sight of Athos on the ground, his pale face, his clammy skin… He didn't want a repeat of that.

The next morning, nothing looked less likely to happen. Athos was already in the yard when Porthos woke, meticulously running through his sword drills as usual. When Porthos joined him for a round of friendly sparring, Athos was as skilful and methodical as ever. Soon, Porthos found himself sprawled on the ground, having his sword handed to him accompanied by Athos' customary smirk.

Porthos was relieved to know it truly had been nothing but the heat. Athos was well. He wouldn't let anything get between him and his duties.


	7. Self Harm

**Self Harm**

It wasn't a good night. Very few nights were, but Aramis didn't mind too much. Bad nights no longer meant screaming and embarrassment. These days, no one had to know. He knew that it had gotten much better. Porthos had held him and calmed him and made him understand that he was, indeed, safe. And alone in his room, with the door bolted shut, Aramis knew that everyone else was safe too.

He had been told to pray to the archangel Raphael for assistance with his night terrors and did so diligently. The prayer calmed his mind and let him sleep soundly for a few hours. Even when the memories returned to torment him, he felt strengthened, knowing he wasn't alone.

Most of the time, he wasn't afraid any more. Sometimes, there were only fleeting images that he would acknowledge briefly before turning to his side and falling asleep again. Other nights, there was more.

That night, he'd been woken by a distant shot. He'd known what would follow and had sat up in bed. When he slept while his mind replayed the massacre, he had no control over his reactions. Aramis preferred to be awake. He sat and let it happen because there was no point in fighting. He didn't want to fight. These were the last memories he had of his brothers.

The sounds came back to him that night; Men shouting in pain, horses whinnying in terror, the crack of muskets, the screams of the dying. He remembered each one of them. As so often, he tried to put names to the sounds, to understand who had died when. He knew it was pointless, but it focussed his mind on something. And… He liked the nights when the sounds came back. He'd become so much better with the sounds. At first, he'd jumped at every shot, but he had trained himself. He'd allow himself these nights and then, during the day, he could shoot like everyone else. Well… Better than most everyone else. He wasn't the shot he used to be, but he was undeniably good.

He was good at this as well. The sounds in his head were still there, but he wasn't deaf to the world. He heard the call of the guard, the steps in the yard, the clearing of a throat, before there was a knock at his door. It amused him that he knew it was Porthos from the sounds alone. A very hesitant Porthos, trying to wake him without startling him. Aramis found it quite endearing.

"Aramis? Aramis, it's me," Porthos called.

Aramis forced the memories to the back of his mind. The screaming dimmed and the second knock was a lot clearer.

"Aramis, I'm sorry to wake you, but…" Porthos sounded so shy, so truly sorry. Because he knew what sleep meant to Aramis now. And yet he still came. Because it was important, because Aramis was important to him.

Aramis smiled and got up, sliding the latch back silently before opening the door. He yawned.

"Not my preferred time for a social call," he said, beckoning Porthos inside. "But be my guest, dear friend."

He flopped back down onto the bed and closed his eyes. "What can I do for you?"

"It's Athos," Porthos said, slightly out of breath. "He's drunk."

Of course it was about Athos. Everything was about Athos these days. When no further explanation followed, Aramis opened one eye and glared at Porthos. Rather ineffectual in the near darkness of his room.

"May I suggest you only tell me when Athos _isn't_ drunk?" Aramis said. "Might save you a lot of running."

"It's not like that."

Aramis groaned. "He's hungover every morning so the evidence suggests he's drunk every night. What is it? So far you've managed to tuck him into bed without help."

As much as Aramis would have liked to have a heart to heart about Athos' excessive drinking, he could think of at least a dozen more suitable times to have it. The bell struck one as if to support his point. He reached for his blankets. Despite only taking three steps on the cold floor, his toes were freezing.

"Aramis…" Porthos' voice broke, making Aramis put the blankets back down and open both eyes. "I think he's dying."

Aramis jumped to his feet, pushing the door open again so he'd have more light.

"Did you fight?" He looked Porthos up and down. If Athos had gotten him into another needless tavern fight… "Are you injured?" he asked, unable to find any evidence, but not quite trusting his eyes.

"What? No." Porthos shook his head. He looked miserable. "It's Athos. He's drunk."

Aramis snorted. "So he isn't dying. He's drunk. Please, spare me the dramatics."

"No, it's… it's bad. He's all… cold and blue and… he's not breathing right."

Aramis' throat constricted until he could barely breathe himself. Cold skin, blue lips… not breathing… No. He swallowed around the growing lump, trying to make his voice sound even.

"Where is he now?" he asked, sitting back down on the bed.

"In his lodgings. I left him to sleep it off."

Left him to choke on his vomit and die. "He'll sober up soon enough," Aramis said. He didn't believe his own calm reassurance and maybe that showed. It certainly didn't reassure Porthos one bit.

"Aramis!" Porthos grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "You have to come with me."

Aramis couldn't. Cold and blue and… dead. And Aramis couldn't help. He'd been there and he couldn't…

"Help him, please."

Porthos leaned over him. His eyes were wide and full of fear. So much fear. And Aramis couldn't do this either.

He gathered his trousers and boots from the floor and jumped into both. On the way out the door, he grabbed his weapons belt. He was already at the gate, nodding to the musketeer on guard, by the time he pulled up his braces. Beside him, Porthos was jogging to keep up.

Aramis started to run. Not that he wanted to get there any sooner, but he couldn't face talking to Porthos, couldn't tell him what he feared. He only knew that if Porthos was to discover his friend dead in his rooms, he couldn't let him be alone.

They turned into narrow Rue Férou and thundered up the stairs. Porthos fumbled with the key. Aramis cursed him inwardly for his diligence. At the moment, Athos' enemy was unlikely to come in from the street.

The room smelled overpoweringly of vomit, urine, and stale wine.

"Open the window," Aramis barked as he skidded to a halt next to the bed. Thank heavens, Porthos had had the good sense to put Athos on his side. A puddle of sick was on the floor. On the floor. Not in Athos' lungs. It was good. Had to be.

Aramis knelt and jabbed two fingers at Athos' throat, feeling for a pulse.

"Praised be the Lord," he breathed, feeling the tell-tale flutter, uneven, but undeniably there. Athos was alive. Aramis breathed deeply through his mouth. He hadn't died. He was alive.

He sharply flicked Athos' cheek. "Wake up. Time to get up now."

When that didn't elicit a response, he slapped Athos.

"Aramis!" Porthos tried to pull him away, but Aramis resisted.

"He needs to stay awake." Aramis slapped Athos again with more force. "If he sleeps, there's no telling if he'll wake again."

There was a choked noise as Porthos' grip on his arm loosened, but Aramis couldn't focus on Porthos' shock, because in that moment Athos groaned and opened his eyes.

"That's it," Aramis said. "Sit up now, on you go."

He tugged at Athos' shoulder, but all that did was to make the man shudder as his stomach rebelled once more. Aramis held his head while Athos was violently sick.

"And that," Aramis said when all that came up was bile. "Is why you don't lay someone down to sleep it off."

He hoisted Athos up into a sitting position.

"Sit," he said to Porthos. "Hold him upright and don't let him fall asleep."

Porthos nodded and scrambled to obey, evidently frightened, but also relieved that Aramis was taking charge. Aramis sighed. He hated command. It never had suited him particularly well and after everything… It didn't matter. He had no choice.

He stood by the window for a moment to get some fresh air and discovered a rope with a water bucket on it. That would certainly help. He hoisted the bucket up and into the room before lighting the lamp and surveying the scene. The room was filthy. He grabbed a bowl from a small table and thrust it at Porthos.

"Here, that should help," he said. "And get him out of that shirt," he added, wrinkling his nose at the various stains.

He used the shirt to mop up the puddles of sick, then threw it out of the window along with the sopping wet breeches Porthos had also removed from Athos. Surely, a man like Athos had plenty of clothes to spare.

By the time Aramis had cleaned the worst of it and emptied the dirty water out of the window, Porthos had wrapped Athos into a blanket.

"He's cold," Porthos said.

Aramis could see that. Athos' lips were blue, his face nearly translucent. He wasn't shivering though.

"Is he conscious?" Aramis asked.

Porthos hesitated. "I think so."

Aramis crouched down in front of the bed and flicked Athos' cheek again. The man flinched, but otherwise showed no response.

"He's drunk himself into a stupor." It was despicable.

"What do we do?" Porthos asked.

"We wait. Don't let him sleep. Don't let him choke." Aramis shrugged. "Not much else we can do."

He settled down onto a rickety stool and rested his chin in his hands, watching the mismatched pair on the bed. Porthos cradled Athos in his arms like an overgrown child. Fitting, really, since he behaved like one.

"Don't be angry with him," Porthos said, looking at Aramis over Athos' shoulder. "He can't help it. He needs the wine."

"You need a glass or two. Not this."

"He does," Porthos insisted. He brushed the hair from Athos' forehead with ridiculous tenderness. Sure, because Athos deserved to be pampered for his stupidity.

"He clearly doesn't," Aramis said. "Look at the state of him."

"He can't stop it."

Aramis snorted. "Did _he_ tell you that? He makes a conscious decision to get himself into this state. Don't make it sound like he doesn't have a choice."

"I don't think he does," Porthos said, gently rubbing Athos' temple with his thumb.

Aramis leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. You didn't always have a choice in life, he knew that. He knew very well that most people didn't have a choice in when they died or how. But Athos did. And he chose this. He could be a perfect musketeer, but no, he'd rather drink himself to death. He chose this over the life he'd been offered.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Aramis asked. "That wine is more important to him than the regiment?"

Porthos winced. "Don't say that. He loves the musketeers as much as you and I."

"Well, he's begging to be kicked out."

"That's not true."

"Tréville won't tolerate this much longer. It's either the drink or the uniform."

Porthos shook his head. "He's the finest recruit in the regiment. Let him enjoy his wine."

"Not when it's affecting his duties."

"He'd never let it," Porthos said with conviction. "He's very conscientious."

"Right," Aramis said. "And at the parade? What was that?"

"That was the heat."

"The rest of us weren't affected."

"I had a headache. It was terribly hot."

"You didn't make me think you had died."

"He had a bad day, alright?"

"He had a hangover," Aramis spat. "He _always_ has a hangover. It's affecting his swordsmanship."

"How can you say it's affecting his swordsmanship?" Porthos asked. "He beats you. He wiped the floor with me yesterday."

"And I hit the target every time." Aramis held out his hand so Porthos could see the persistent tremble. "But you know this is affecting me. You know it's still a bad practice for me."

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Porthos mulled that over.

"He is very good," he said eventually.

"Imagine how good he could be without the drink," Aramis added.

"I accept him as he is," Porthos said. "I don't need him to change."

"You need him to stay alive though."

Porthos jerked as if he'd been hit. Aramis knew it was a low blow, but he needed Porthos to understand that this wasn't sustainable, that he couldn't stick up for the drunkard all the time, that he needed to let go or be destroyed by it.

"It's not usually that bad," Porthos said. "He's not usually like that. I promise you, he's not. It's just a bad night. The drink won't kill him."

Aramis laughed although he found little humour in the situation. "No, it probably won't," he conceded. "He'll get himself killed in combat or in training before that."

"What?" Porthos stared at him in disbelief. "How can you say that?"

"Because it's true. Because you need to stop covering for him. Staying out late, dragging him home every night—"

"He's my friend," Porthos interrupted him. "That's what you do for a friend."

Aramis bit down sharply on his tongue. Fine then. Fine. What did he know after all? If Porthos wanted to waste his friendship on yet another hopeless case… Fine. Who was he to disagree?

He shivered and drew his shirt tighter around himself. He glared over at Athos, nice and comfortable, leaning against Porthos. He used to be the one in Porthos' warm embrace. Not that he needed it any more. Athos needed it more right now. Aramis didn't begrudge him the warmth. Obviously.

Porthos murmured softly into Athos' ear. Aramis couldn't hear, but he knew what Porthos would be saying, he'd heard it for weeks upon weeks. Still, he strained to distinguish the words. All he could hear was the murmur and the slow, uneven rasp of Athos' breath.

To keep himself from thinking, Aramis took the rosary from around his neck. He'd never been good at waiting and found the familiar routine of the prayers a soothing occupation for his hands and mouth. He'd spent weeks staring into nothingness and getting lost in his memories. He didn't need any more of that. Especially not during their vigil.

He made the sign of the cross, breathing deeply, and relaxed into the prayer. He clutched the small crucifix.

 _Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, creatorem caeli et terrae…_

The familiar Latin washed over him as he continued to focus on his breathing.

When he moved onto the first bead, he noticed that Porthos had stopped talking. Well, he didn't mind an audience.

 _Pater noster, qui es in caelis,_ he prayed more loudly. _Sanctificetur nomen tuum…_

He wondered if Athos believed. He didn't wear a rosary, just that locket. What was in it? A tiny portrait of a lover? Maybe a lock of her hair? Probably not an icon of a saint. Athos didn't strike him as the praying kind, though he undoubtedly spoke Latin.

Aramis shook his head as he moved onto the first three _Ave Marias_. One each for the three theological virtues, faith, hope, and charity.

 _Ave Maria, gratia plena…_

The faith that God wouldn't take another musketeer.

 _Ave Maria, gratia plena…_

The hope that Athos would indeed live through the night.

 _Ave Maria, gratia plena…_

The charity to actually want him to.

He had barely started the _Gloria_ when Athos emptied his stomach again. Aramis abandoned his prayers and got up to empty the bowl while Porthos wiped the mouth of a groaning Athos. Aramis looked for a cup to give Athos some water, but couldn't find one. He settled for rinsing one of the empty wine bottles and handed it to Porthos.

"Try to make him drink," he said. Then, noticing Athos' eyes on him, he added: "Try to keep it down. It'll help."

He wasn't sure Athos had heard. He still seemed completely out of it. Most of the water dribbled down his chin. His head lolled from side to side while Porthos tried to keep him awake.

"How much did he have?" Aramis asked Porthos. Too much, obviously. He didn't go out much, but he had seen Athos drink. Had seen how unaffected he was by incredible amounts of wine. To get him to this state… Aramis sadly shook his head. "Why didn't you stop him?"

Porthos ducked his head. "I didn't know."

"How can you not know?" Aramis asked sharply. "He didn't get like this while you were out taking a piss."

Porthos shrugged. "Wasn't like I was watching him the whole time. I was playing cards."

Aramis glared at him. "You watched me all the time."

"It's different with Athos. He's… he's not injured."

Aramis' breath caught in his throat. Sure. Sure, this was…

"You call this healthy then?"

"It's just..." Porthos trailed off.

"There's nothing _just_ about this. You know that," Aramis snapped. "You came to me because you thought he was dying. And you know why I came back with you? Because I thought that in the time it took you to run to the garrison, he had very likely died."

Porthos' eyes went wide. His arms tightened around Athos. "It's not like that," he said.

"What is it like then? I'll show you! It's like this." Aramis picked up a bottle and put it onto the table. "And like this." Another bottle followed.

Aramis picked up bottle, after bottle. Soon, the table was covered, then the top of Athos' chest, the windowsill. And still there were more.

Aramis spent a long time on his knees, removing bottles from underneath the bed. There wasn't a speck of floor that remained empty. Bottles, nothing but bottles. Each one of them seemed to weigh Aramis down. So many bottles, so much wine. All of them empty; all of it drunk by Athos. He hadn't been in Paris that long. And in that time, he'd drunk plenty in the tavern and the garrison.

Aramis hadn't expected that. He'd known there was a problem, of course. It was impossible to miss when you knew Athos, when you stepped foot into his room. But he hadn't known the full extent of it.

He turned in a slow circle, looking into every corner of the room until he couldn't find another bottle. Only the mountain ranges of bottles he'd collected. So many bottles. He didn't count them. He didn't need to calculate just how much Athos had drunk per week, per day. The effects were clear enough.

When he looked up, Porthos' eyes were full of tears. Aramis nodded his head slowly. This was it. This was the truth. And it hurt.

Porthos sniffled. "Did you mean it?" he asked. "When you said Athos… Athos would die in… in training?"

Aramis sighed. "You must see that this…" He gestured towards the bottles. "Isn't healthy. That much wine, it… upsets the body. Not just for a day, either. It does things to you, your brain, your heart."

"He's always drinking the good stuff," Porthos said. "He won't go blind from that wine."

"It's not the quality of it. It's the sheer amount. It takes some time, but it breaks people. We've both seen that before."

Porthos shook his head. "No, not Athos." He stroked Athos' hair. "He's not like that."

"Look at it, Porthos. Look at all those bottles. He _is_ like that."

Porthos' shoulders slumped forward. Aramis felt for him. It was painful to see the truth. But maybe if Porthos saw it, he'd do something.

"It's affecting his reflexes," Aramis continued. "It's making him slower, it's making him weaker. It's making him age before his time. And that shows in training. Every day, he's a little bit slower. And one day, he's too slow to react. One day, you'll think he'll parry a blow, only he doesn't, and then…"

Porthos face was screwed up in pain. Aramis had watched him train with Athos. It was clear how much Porthos enjoyed working with him, how much he loved not having to hold back. His strength was countered with skill. Only in the picture Aramis painted, there'd be the day when it wasn't. Aramis fingered his rosary. Maybe he'd gone too far.

"But…" Porthos started. Right. Apparently, Aramis hadn't gone far enough yet.

"But it's even more likely death will come in combat," Aramis said. "You will show him mercy, but an enemy will not. When he stumbles, they'll stab him. When he—"

"No," Porthos said. "Please don't."

"I'm not the one doing this. It's him."

Porthos sighed. "I know that. But he doesn't."

Aramis chuckled darkly. Porthos' ability to fool himself was astonishing. All it took were some fancy words and half-baked reassurances from Athos and Porthos wouldn't hear a word against him.

"He knows," Aramis said. "He's hurting himself deliberately."

Porthos didn't reply. He went back to softly talking to Athos. Aramis watched him. He didn't try to hear the words any more. The pain was evident on Porthos' face. He didn't need to know how exactly he expressed it. As much as Aramis regretted causing that pain, it was necessary. He couldn't just stand by and watch as Athos destroyed himself and, more importantly, Porthos.

Porthos shifted Athos in his arms so he could get a hand to the little pendant he always wore. Aramis was glad to see him seeking comfort there. Saint Jude. Porthos certainly kept him supplied with a steady stream of lost causes. It had taken some time for Aramis to convince him that his saint wasn't actually Judas Iscariot. Porthos hadn't believed him at first. Unfathomable that anyone but a traitor would intervene on his behalf. For years, he had believed that the biggest biblical villain he knew was his patron saint. Aramis' heart ached thinking about it.

Porthos' ecclesiastical knowledge was sketchy at best, but he was eager to learn. The few times he had accompanied Aramis to church, he had soaked up every bit of information. But none had made him happier than learning about his Saint Jude. The patron saint of the impossible. He fit Porthos so well. Often overlooked, but eager to prove himself, to assist anyone who sought his aid with his unquenchable optimism.

They sat in silence for a long time. Porthos and his optimism. Aramis and the dark reality. And somewhere in between maybe, Saint Jude and the archangel Raphael. Aramis prayed. He prayed for support, for guidance, and for the wisdom to take it.

Athos groaned.

Aramis got up and took a closer look at him. Athos had warmed up and looked a little less pale. Both pulse and breathing seemed to be steadier than before. Maybe the worst had passed. For that night at least.

"You can put him down now," Aramis said.

"But what if he falls asleep?"

"It'll be fine." Aramis prayed to God that he was right. "We'll watch him. We'll be there if he chokes."

Athos protested with low grunts when they gave him more water and then repositioned him.

Porthos shushed him. "It's alright," he said. "You can sleep now."

Athos squinted, trying to focus his eyes. "Por'os," he slurred, finally recognising who held him.

"Shhh," Porthos said, stroking his face. "Sleep."

Aramis made to move away, to give them some privacy, but Athos seemed to have spotted him. "A'mis… you r'ly are ins'pa'ble."

Aramis swayed backwards like he had been punched. All the air rushed from his lungs. He stumbled and sat down heavily on the floor.

Inseparable.

No.

They weren't. He… wasn't. Porthos wasn't. Marsac… Marsac and Aramis, they'd been inseparable. Inseparable. Inseparable except for… when… Inseparable. They weren't. He'd never… not again… It wasn't like that. It had never been like that at all. Marsac had never been inseparable from him and Porthos wasn't either. Nobody was. Nobody would ever be again. He wouldn't do that to himself. He knew better now.

Not inseparable.

No.

Never.

Porthos sat down next to him and threw a blanket over them. Aramis curled his fingers into its frayed edges.

"Sorry, only one I could find," he said. "You'd think he'd have a bigger household, really. He must be able to afford a few luxuries. Other than wine that is."

"How is he?" Aramis asked because that was what he had to ask. His voice sounded far away to him, somehow foreign.

Porthos sighed. "Think he's asleep now."

He scooted closer and slung his arm around Aramis' shoulders.

"Thank you, Aramis," he said, embracing him. "Couldn't have done it without you."

Aramis held himself very stiffly. This wasn't… This couldn't be happening. They weren't… a thing. They didn't belong together at all. He'd tried that and he wasn't doing it again. They could be friends, but not like that.

Where had Athos heard that word? He must have heard it somewhere. Were they talking around the garrison? Of course, he knew they were talking about him, but talking about them? Talking about him and Porthos? Talking like they were… that word? It wasn't right. They didn't know of course, but… but still…

Too late he realised that Porthos had been talking for a while.

"… once he settles in, it'll get better. He's with us now. He'll learn eventually."

"And until then, he's risking his life," Aramis said. He hadn't caught Porthos' entire argument, but he could counter that last bit. "His life and yours," he added.

"Aramis…" Porthos said. Aramis could feel him shake his head. "Don't worry about me."

"He is risking your life," Aramis insisted. "You are always watching out for him."

Porthos squeezed his shoulder. "That's what we do. We're all brothers in the regiment."

Brothers. Aramis' heart clenched painfully. Exactly. They were all brothers. That's why it hurt.

"Yes," he said, trying to make his voice steadier than he felt. "But usually your brother watches your back as well."

"He d—"

"No, he doesn't. He doesn't when he drags you into yet another tavern fight."

"That was once."

"It only takes once." The words came out sharp enough to make Porthos wince. Aramis was glad. He wanted to weep, but that would only make Porthos comfort him, ignoring the issue at hand. Not that he didn't want comfort. But he wanted this more.

Porthos sighed. "Please, give him time."

"No."

"I'll talk to him. He'll try…"

"Try and fail. Trying is no help to anyone. He has to do it."

"Give him—"

"I can't." Aramis bit down on his lip until he could taste blood. "It's dangerous," he ground out.

"Oh, come here, you." Porthos hugged him tight. Aramis did not let himself relish the warmth and the closeness. This was exactly what he didn't want.

"It's dangerous," Porthos said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. "But that's what we do. Being a musketeer is dangerous. It's nothing to be afraid of."

Aramis roughly freed himself from the embrace and sat back on his heels, facing Porthos. "Being a musketeer is risking your life. It's dying. I know that," he said. "But it's not actively killing yourself."

Porthos' mouth fell open. He stared at Aramis. Aramis stared right back. Eventually, Porthos cleared his throat.

"He is, isn't he?"

"Praised be the Lord," Aramis hissed. Finally, Porthos understood. "Yes. He is."

He watched Porthos' throat bob as he swallowed. "But we can… maybe…"

"No," Aramis interrupted. "I can't. There's no _we_ in this."

Porthos' eyes went round with astonishment.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said. "I can't go through this again. So many of my friends died. I can't sit and watch and…"

His voice hitched. Porthos reached out for his arm, but Aramis jerked it out of his range.

"It won't be like that, Aramis. I swear."

"I can't live on empty reassurances."

"No, seriously," Porthos said, looking like he believed himself. "This ends now."

And Aramis wanted to believe, but all he could see was a future in which Athos died.

"I can't…" His voice sounded so small, choked by all the tears he didn't want to cry.

"You won't have to. He'll live. We'll be friends."

Aramis wanted that. For himself. For Porthos. He shook his head, genuinely sad, mourning for what could have been. "I can't be friends. Not like this. Not with him."

"Please Aramis," Porthos breathed. "For both of us." He was crying. Aramis held out a hand and Porthos clutched it.

Aramis wouldn't cry. Not here, not like this. He'd made a decision. He knew it was right. He had to protect himself if he wanted to be a proper musketeer once more. He couldn't go back. If he ever went back to that darkness, he didn't think he'd find the way out again.

There was a movement from the bed and then Athos' raspy, but steady voice.

"I neither requested, nor do I require your friendship."

His words seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room.

Porthos stared at Aramis.

Nobody spoke.

Athos harsh breathing was the only sound.

Then Aramis jumped to his feet and swiped an arm across the table, sending bottles flying everywhere. Glass smashed against the walls, the floor, shattering. Left-over drops of wine sprayed in all directions.

Aramis screamed, but no words came out. It was too late. Too late for all of this. He already cared. He was already hurting. Athos wasn't just hurting himself, he was tearing Aramis apart.

Aramis stormed out, throwing the door shut. He stumbled against the bannister at the top of the stairs. He clawed his fingers into the wood, doubling up in pain. He loved both of these men. And it hurt to know he'd lose them. It hurt so much.

He loved and he cared and he knew it would end, swiftly, painfully, again. In the back of his mind, the screaming started. Not again. He couldn't go through this again. He couldn't be friends, have friends, and lose friends. And yet here he was.

The screaming grew louder.

He tried to hold on, tried to anchor himself in the present. Wood underneath his fingers. He couldn't let go. The slightly musty air of the house. He was here. The voices in the room. They were here as well. They were real. His friends. His goddamn, accursed friends.

"You don't talk to him like that," he heard Porthos say, voice full of barely contained fury. Broken glass scraped across the floor inside the room.

"Why?" Athos sneered. "What makes _him_ so special?"

Aramis sank to the ground. All the tears he'd contained flooded his face with a vengeance. He sobbed silently. What indeed?

He could hear Porthos growl, glass crunching beneath his boots.

"His best friend left him to die among the corpses of his brothers. You don't reject his friendship like that."

 _You didn't_. But oh, how Aramis wished that he could.


	8. Blood Loss (1 of 3)

**Blood Loss**

Before Athos could even reach for his pistol, Aramis had already thrown his main gauche. The blade stuck quivering in the heart of the bandit. They had thought him dead, along with the rest of his gang, when he had suddenly raised himself onto his knees, aiming a pistol at Porthos' back.

"Persistent buggers," Porthos said while Aramis retrieved his blade, making sure the man was truly dead this time.

Athos nodded to the musketeer. "Your aim is true."

Porthos beamed as if the observation had been directed at him. "Best in the regiment."

Aramis made a face like he had swallowed vinegar, but Porthos wasn't watching. He looked west, eyeing the fading rays of the weak late autumn sun suspiciously.

"We should camp here," he said. "It's too far to the next town and this road is treacherous."

A shudder passed through Aramis though his face remained impassive.

"Aramis?" Athos asked, having spotted the reaction. He hoped to pass it off as deferring to a superior rather than concern. Aramis was in command and while Athos doubted that he wanted to stay in the forest, or indeed that it was wise to make him attempt it, this was ultimately Aramis' decision.

"Of course," Aramis said. "We make camp."

While Porthos strode over to the dead bandits to search for anything of note, Aramis walked to his horse. Athos shifted his weight uncomfortably. His leg hurt.

He kept an eye on Aramis. It was one thing to follow the musketeer's lead on a simple mission to deliver a letter, but quite another to spend the night in the forest with him. It was well-known around the garrison that Aramis' mind was addled. He had been on limited duties since Athos joined the garrison.

Aramis didn't retrieve anything from his saddle bags. Instead he leaned heavily against his horse, half draped over the saddle. She was nosing at his back. When Aramis made to stroke her neck, Athos noticed he was shaking. He turned away. Give a man his privacy, some time to compose himself. It was only civil to do so.

He joined Porthos. Together, they turned over bodies and searched their pockets. They discovered nothing of any relevance. There was no evidence that this had been a targeted attack. For all they knew, they might have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Athos had to remind himself that it wasn't for him to think about such things. He was a recruit. He was to follow directions from his superiors. Aramis would be the one reporting back to Tréville.

When they were done, Aramis hadn't moved. In an instant, Porthos was next to him, talking softly and rubbing soothing circles on his back. Athos needed no explanation. He didn't know much about Savoy, but the general garrison gossip was impossible to escape. The cold, the forest, the piles of corpses. No wonder that was enough to transport a man back there. He'd seen it once. Aramis curled up in the corner of his room, eyes unseeing, body shaking like a leaf. He did not wish to repeat the experience.

"Alright?" Porthos asked. A ridiculous question.

"Of course," Aramis replied, drawing himself upright. Athos had to acknowledge his determination.

Aramis scanned their surroundings. "These rocks should provide some shelter," he said. "I'll take first watch."

Athos frowned. Bending over repeatedly had aggravated his wound and he could feel warm blood trickling down the back of his trousers. He'd have to see to it. Not here though. Not when he could see Aramis clench his fists and jaw, trying to keep himself from sliding back into the dark hole of terror he had spent months crawling out of. Athos knew what that felt like. He shuddered at the thought of returning to the scenes of his past. He would not wish such torture on the musketeer.

"We can ride on," he said firmly. "We have some light yet and the path is clear. Our horses will find the way."

"But—" Porthos started.

Athos glared at him, willing him to not expose the lie. There was no way they were staying here with Aramis in this state.

"I do not think it a hardship," Athos said. "An hour or two and we should reach the town. If I recall correctly, there appeared to be a decent inn. May I suggest we aim for a warm supper and an ale there and move on?"

It was no suggestion, at least not in the way of ordinary soldiers. Athos had spent his life making suggestions that were little less than carefully couched orders. He didn't look at Aramis, painfully aware that he was overstepping his mark considerably. As a recruit he was in no position to order a musketeer around. The nobility of one's birth counted little among these men. Athos liked it that way.

Porthos looked from Athos to Aramis. He was hesitant, clearly not used to making decisions on his own. It seemed simple enough at first glance. They were equipped to camp and had little need to ride on in the dark. Athos' estimate of two hours was an understatement and they had already encountered evidence of how unsafe this road truly was. There wouldn't be a decision to make if it wasn't for Aramis. Porthos cared about Aramis, and when Porthos cared about someone, he wasn't shy about making decisions for their benefit, as Athos knew very well.

Porthos shrugged. "I'd quite fancy an ale."

Aramis threw his hands in the air. "Oh fine, if you're that keen on breaking your neck on the road, who am I to object? Clearly, Athos needs his featherbed for the night."

Athos did not deign that worthy of a response. He did not appreciate the infrequent allusions to his status. Aramis was no fool. No matter how hard Athos tried to appear to be nothing but an ordinary soldier, he knew that Aramis knew. Probably not the whole truth, but he had a good understanding of class and had sussed Athos' position relative to his own immediately.

It mattered very little. Aramis was his superior now. Captain Tréville operated a curiously classless society within his regiment, but differences still existed. One only had to look at poor Porthos with his threadbare clothes and the tired nag he rode.

Athos shook his head. The important thing was that they rode on now. _Focus on the task at hand. Don't let your thoughts stray._ That attitude had kept him somewhat sane so far. Decision made, he mounted his horse. He quickly regretted that as pain shot through his injured leg. His vision darkened. He took a few slow, careful breaths as he settled into the saddle, willing the darkness away. He yearned for a drink.

The others did not notice his predicament. They had returned to their customary bickering, though it seemed a little more tense than usual, a little strained in an effort to paper over the cracks.

"Supper's on you," Aramis said.

"Why me?" Porthos protested. "I haven't got a single franc!"

"Should have thought of that before you neglected to actually kill your man. If I have to do your work, you have to pay my dinner. I don't make the rules."

"You do." Porthos was laughing. "And they usually favour your own purse!"

"What? Like your rules for cards?"

They both laughed and Aramis rode on ahead. Porthos was still chuckling when he turned to Athos, who followed more slowly.

"Did you hear that? He's calling me a cheat. The bloody cheek of him!"

"He shouldn't be here," Athos hissed. This was no time for levity.

"Oh, come on, now." Porthos nodded at Aramis who was cantering down the path some paces ahead of them. "He's fine."

"He's not. I lied to Captain Tréville for this."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "You didn't," he pointed out. "You didn't say a thing to Tréville."

"I should have told him Aramis was unfit for this mission."

"He can't stay in Paris forever."

Athos stared at Aramis' back. As ever, the musketeer was talking softly to his mare. As if everything was fine. And maybe it was. Maybe Athos was imagining the tightness in Aramis' shoulders, the way his hands clenched around the reins, the strain in his voice.

There was a rustle in the undergrowth. Aramis jumped. In the blink of an eye, he had drawn his pistol and fired. When Porthos and Athos caught up with him, there was a dead fox on the side of the road.

"What?" Porthos asked. "You wanting a fur coat now?"

Aramis closed his eyes and breathed deeply before replying. "More your style. You always fancy useless pretty things."

Porthos made some token protest, but Athos focussed on Aramis. His voice was light, but Athos watched him try and fail to reload his pistol before stuffing it back into his belt. His hands were shaking too much. He frowned before shaking his head and forcing his mouth into a smile.

"I'll ride on ahead," Aramis announced. With grim determination, he spurred on his horse.

Athos couldn't believe it. The obstinacy of that man was putting him in an impossible position.

"This needs to stay confined to the garrison," Athos whispered to Porthos.

He wasn't sure the other recruit had heard until he glared at him. Without a word, Porthos moved his horse next to Aramis'. Athos brought up the rear, waiting for disaster to strike.

It was irresponsible to let Aramis leave the garrison, much less handle weapons. And yet here he was, not merely riding through the countryside, but also in charge of their little group. Free to command them to do whatever his deluded mind yearned for.

Athos soon had other concerns. His leg wound smarted, the saddle pressing against it with every step of his horse. He was no stranger to pain, but this was decidedly uncomfortable. On top of the injury, he also had a headache. He ground his knuckles against his temples. The usual dull throbbing had suddenly become sharper and more intense. He sighed. He'd be happy to see that promised ale and a bed. He was rather hoping he didn't draw the short straw of sleeping on the floor.

The setting sun cast long shadows all around them. It became more and more difficult to see as they stumbled over roots and rocks. Athos cursed his own lie about a clear path, but nobody made a comment. They simply slowed their horses and carried on. From the glances Porthos kept shooting Aramis, Athos guessed that he had finally understood the severity of the problem plaguing his friend. Of course he had. They had been fast friends for much longer than Athos had even been in Paris.

Athos yawned. It had been a long day. The musketeers rose early and they had had a long, hard ride even before the ambush. It wasn't his old life, but Athos saw that as a great advantage. It was this tiring work, the mental and physical exercise, that enabled him to get any sleep at all. It was even more important now that he tried to go easier on the wine. But it had only been a day of riding, after all, so this level of fatigue was unusual. He hoped Aramis would not think it necessary to assign watches throughout the night. He doubted he could take first watch, no matter how hard he tried to stay awake. But at the same time he couldn't blame Aramis for being hypervigilant, not after what had happened to him. He was just so tired.

"You keeping up?" Aramis asked, turning in the saddle. He let Porthos take the lead and waited for Athos to catch up.

Athos gave him a curt nod. There wasn't anything to be said.

"He's a fine horse, your Roger," Aramis said.

Athos eyed him warily. He didn't think Aramis was truly in the mood for light conversation.

"You know Porthos was really worried about him, right? That first night you met?"

Athos shrugged. He didn't remember much of that night. A tavern. Lots of wine. A fight. A dark-skinned man by his side. Waking up in the garrison, Porthos fussing over him, Aramis glaring at him from afar.

Now Aramis was smiling at him. Athos searched his face for the fear he knew was hidden behind the mask. Sure enough, Aramis' smile never reached his eyes.

"Couldn't understand much of what you said, but there was always that name. Roger. Roger all alone. Roger missing you…"

Athos grimaced. He hated to think he had made such a scene.

"Porthos thought you had a kid, maybe," Aramis continued. "A friend, somewhere out in the streets. He was very relieved when you went to retrieve your friend from an inn's stables the next day."

Fortunately, the path grew too narrow to ride next to each other for a while, and Athos was spared a response. But as soon as there was space, Aramis was onto him again.

"You've had him long then?" he asked, nodding at Roger.

"He was bred—" Athos stopped. It was quite unnecessary to go into detail and further highlight the differences between them. "I rode his mother," he said instead. Which wasn't a lie. He must have ridden her at some point, like he had most horses on the estate. A particularly sharp pain made him close his eyes. He opened them again quickly. He had no need for images of the estate.

Aramis gave him a strange look, but asked no further questions.

"It was different with us, you see," he said, patting his horse's neck. "Angelina stole me."

How could a horse steal a musketeer? Before Athos could ask, Aramis had moved on to discussing the mare's favourite foods, leaving Athos to ponder his cryptic statement.

Stolen. Sweat beaded on Athos' forehead. While it was quite impossible for a horse to steal a man, the reverse certainly happened. Had Aramis truly admitted to _stealing_ his horse? Horse theft was a major transgression. He had seen men tortured for that.

Aramis kept up his chatter for a bit, but Athos didn't listen. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It really was no wonder he felt so affected. If this was true, he rode with a thief and was under the command of a common criminal. Tréville would hear of that. It was a stain on the reputation of the regiment to harbour such a man, an affront to the king to have a horse thief among his personal guard.

Eventually, Aramis left him to his brooding and rode up ahead, next to Porthos. Athos' stomach heaved watching the tender look Porthos gave the musketeer. The thief. He did not blame Aramis for his trauma, for the affliction that made him unfit for duty for so long. But he would most certainly judge him for disrespecting another man's property.

Athos fell back further, glaring at Aramis from behind. He loosened his scarf and undid a few of the buttons on his doublet. He was getting rather worked up about this, drenched in sweat despite the seasonable chill in the air.

But a horse. A fine horse like Aramis' mare was worth a small fortune. For some poor ordinary man maybe a genuine fortune, the means to turn his life around. Horse theft was among the most serious crimes in the kingdom, and for good reason.

Maybe Aramis hadn't really stolen her. Athos wiped away more sweat. Maybe requisitioning might be the more accurate term. Requisitioned as part of an urgent mission. Chasing enemies of the crown, his own horse shot from underneath him… Athos took a deep breath. That was a genuine possibility. And given the circumstances, returning her might not have been feasible. Yes, that must have been it. Athos swallowed. His throat felt parched. He'd have to obtain the full story behind this. On further reflection, it seemed unlikely that Captain Tréville would tolerate a thief in his ranks.

Aramis held up his hand and Athos' train of thoughts came to an abrupt halt along with their horses. He copied Porthos, reaching for his pistol and scanning the forest around them while Aramis slid from the saddle.

"Keep an eye out."

At Aramis' command, Porthos nodded to Athos, indicating that he would watch their left and Athos' should take the right. Athos peered into the dark. Beyond the path, the gloom was impenetrable. His eyes stung and he struggled to see. He wiped sweat from his brow once more, trying to remove it from his eyes. When that did nothing to improve his vision, he narrowed his eyes, forcing them to focus, but the mottled grey shadows of the trees wouldn't stop shifting and swaying. Still holding his pistol in one hand, he dropped the other to his saddle, digging his fingers into the sturdy leather to ground himself.

"A large group of riders," Aramis said from where he was crouched on the ground. "Twenty at least."

Porthos swore under his breath. Athos could not blame him. They weren't exactly desperate to encounter such a large group, particularly given the earlier ambush.

"Today?" Porthos asked.

"Give me a moment. Stay vigilant."

Athos tried, but no matter how often he wiped the sweat away, his eyes wouldn't work properly. He needed… just a little. Just enough to steady his nerves. Relinquishing the death grip on his saddle, he reached for his hipflask. Shame flashed across his mind, but he pushed it away. He could not afford such sentiments, not now, not when the others' lives might depend on his ability to function. Let them judge if they saw, let them comment once more. Maybe he was just that, the drunk that Aramis had called him for so long, but this was no time to think of that. He brought the flask to his lips. He needed this.

No relief came. His hands were shaking as he tried in vain to angle the flask properly. No drop, no sweet burn of brandy in his throat. The flask was empty.

Oh. Of course. An attempt—misguided it seemed—to better himself. He had only allowed himself one small measure of Armagnac for this mission. And he drank that reward after they had delivered the letter.

Not that it mattered. He could just… he would… He breathed deeply and bit down on the soft flesh of his cheek. He could do this. He didn't need… they always said he didn't need… he didn't. He just… The shadows were dancing, moving all around and he needed… he needed a rest. He had to… had to call for a halt, had to tell them, had to… A breather, merely a breather and he would be fine again. He would… he would call for a halt.

"They're old," Aramis said. "Three days at least."

Athos could see the musketeer get to his feet, but somehow his voice seemed dulled. Nevertheless, he admired his skill. Moments like this showed Aramis for the elite soldier he was, past transgressions and current illness notwithstanding.

"No danger then?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shook his head. "All is well."

His legs didn't seem to agree. Athos watched him stumble and barely hold himself up, clutching his horse for support. The mare snorted as her master's fingers clawed into her mane.

Porthos gripped his friend's shoulder, squeezing it. He left his hand there, a support, tethering Aramis to reality. Athos knew that grip.

"Not long now," Porthos said.

Athos heard his voice from far away, so far… so… He breathed deeply once more, trying to clear the black spots from his eyes. Of course Porthos was right, it wasn't long now. There was no reason… He sheathed his pistol, fingers almost as clumsy as Aramis' earlier. There was no reason at all. He could not call for a halt now. There was no way he would subject Aramis to the forest any longer than strictly necessary. They would ride and ride quickly, helping them both. Once at the inn, he could get a drink and they could rest. Aramis could put his mind at ease and Athos his uncooperative body.

 _All was well._

He clung to that thought. Not long now, a few more miles and then he could rest. Rest… he was so tired now, he was… tired. Indeed, he might have fallen asleep if it hadn't been for the constant discomfort. Every one of Roger's steps sent a jolt of pain through his leg. A blessing in disguise, maybe. It would not do to fall from his horse now and delay them even further. He couldn't… not with Aramis…

Aramis. Athos focused his thoughts on Aramis. The musketeer rode at the front now, with Athos bringing up the rear. Whenever the path widened enough to allow Porthos to ride next to Aramis, Athos caught a few kind words between the two friends. Porthos asking, Porthos reassuring. And Aramis, Aramis was calm. Athos could appreciate that in a man. Surety, even in face of his own suffering. Aramis was… he was decisive for sure. Once he had a target, he was not easily deterred. He led them through the forest at a steady pace. Athos had to admit that he could not have ridden at that tempo on his own. The way it was, he followed the others, giving Roger the freedom to do as he pleased.

Athos' heart was intent to keep pace with their swift ride, hammering in his chest as if he himself was running through the night. Similarly, his lungs seemed unable to draw in sufficient breath. He tried to control his breathing, to not pant like a dog.

Intellectually, he knew it wasn't that warm. Yet his body had a different perception. He was sweating copiously, like this was a hot summer's day and they had been fighting for hours. He yearned for a drink, but more than that for a rest. For a chance to sleep and recover. To sleep to not… feel like this.

Step after step, pain upon pain. In his leg, in his head. In his stomach as well. Bile rose with the slightest movement. And he hadn't had a drink. He hadn't had a drink since they'd delivered that letter in the early afternoon. He wouldn't be sick and let them think he was drunk. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't. Porthos' disappointed look… again. Aramis… again… and he couldn't… not when Aramis… not again.

At some point, the trees had disappeared without Athos' noticing. It was odd to suddenly find himself riding between fields, the space around them so wide, so open. So much… and he… so little. Athos felt like he was one with the darkness, endless and everywhere and—

"You keeping up?" Porthos' voice. Somewhere ahead. Dark figures. Aramis and Porthos, of course.

"Yes." Athos gave him a nod. He shouldn't have. His eyes, his brain… he wasn't sure which, but something in his head kept repeating the movement over and over again. It hurt his head and… his stomach… he was so… He wasn't going to be sick.

Not long now. Not far. They were almost there.

An ale.

A featherbed.

They were asking if he had changed his mind or if he was still eager for the inn and he said yes. Yes to that last part. Anything. Anything to move on, to arrive. He needed a bed, feathers or no. He needed to get off his horse before he fell off. He needed to rest. He simply needed rest.

He needed…

The world swam, swayed…

It was dark. And yet the sweating never stopped.

It had to be cold. And still…

His horse stopped, quite suddenly. There was light and… voices. Aramis and Porthos and… someone else. The inn, of course. They must have reached the inn. He hadn't noticed. But he was… they were here now, finally. He was glad. Aramis was safe and he… he could rest now. Tension flooded from him and he struggled to catch it, hold on to enough of it to keep him going, to keep him from relaxing and falling off.

He tried to listen to what Aramis was saying but couldn't make out the words. He understood the tone though. This was Aramis charming the innkeeper. This wasn't Aramis the broken wreck of a man any more. This was Aramis the musketeer, the libertine, the legendary sniper they spoke of in hushed tones around the garrison.

Porthos said something, softly, just for Athos' ears, but Athos couldn't hear. His heart was pounding. There was a ringing in his ears and he knew he was about to pass out. He'd had practice with that, too much. But he didn't… he didn't want to… not now. Porthos smiled, nodding at Aramis. So fond, so kind. And Athos knew he would… if he passed out, Porthos would think it was the wine again and he'd be disappointed. And Aramis… he'd be so scared.

Athos bit his cheek again, willing himself to focus on that pain, to stay conscious. He wouldn't pass out. Only a little further. Off his horse and into a room, a bed. Then he could rest.

 _Nearly there now._

It was abhorrent to be so weak all the time. He was a recruit, pledged to the king's elite regiment and all he had done so far was collapse at his companions' feet. Not today. He wouldn't embarrass himself again.

Porthos dismounted and Athos figured he should too.

But then what?

He didn't trust his leg to carry him for however long it took Aramis to secure them a room. Not right now. Not until this weakness had passed and the ringing in his ears… He could hardly hear himself think.

A bench stood outside the inn, a few feet from their horses. Not far. He could sit there. He could wait, could maybe pretend there was something wrong with his boot. He could gather his strength there.

He lifted himself with some difficulty, then removed his right foot from the stirrup. Such a simple action should not feel so arduous. As soon as he lifted his foot, the ringing in his ears intensified. Roger snorted and shifted and that didn't help at all. Athos' vision darkened further. He couldn't even… he wouldn't…

 _Not long now._

He could make it to that bench. It wasn't far.

He swung his leg over his horse's rear and suddenly all the blood seemed to rush down and out. Out and away and his head… his eyes… his leg. Oh, his leg.

The pain.

There was pain.

Darkness. And falling. He was falling.

"Athos!"

Porthos somewhere, far away… And the pain… the darkness… falling…

No.

Not like that. He wasn't…

 _Not long now._

He could…

Porthos… Aramis… He would…

But the pain… It was so dark and he was still falling.

There were hands as well. Kind and soft and… Voices. Far away. He tried to listen, tried to hear. Voices…

His name. The new name. _Athos._ Porthos calling Athos. And he was getting closer. And Athos… Athos could… There was Porthos and there was pain. And the darkness, but Porthos… The darkness… holding him, but there was also Porthos. Porthos was holding him.

He opened his eyes and there was Porthos. Porthos' doublet in front of his eyes. Dark leather and… darkness…

"Leave him to me. See to the horses. I've got this."

And Athos agreed. Porthos had him. Quite securely. But why was Porthos… was he talking to Aramis? Why was he ordering him around? That was odd. Not like Porthos at all.

He tried to make sense of that, but the darkness came back in waves. Waves on a beach, a little further each time. The waves built. More darkness. It was almost there now, almost at his face, but Athos resisted. He wasn't weak. He wasn't… Drowning. He wasn't drowning. He could swim, he could resist the waves, the darkness. He could…

Porthos' body shifted. Maybe he stood up, maybe he walked. Athos was jostled in his arms and then…

Pain.

So much pain.

His leg was on fire.

His leg…

Someone screamed.

He heard Porthos curse and then…

The wave…

The pain…

The darkness.


	9. Blood Loss (2 of 3)

**Blood Loss (Chapter 2 of 3)**

It was so familiar. Athos on the bed and Porthos struggling to remove his boots, trying to be gentle, but grumbling under his breath. Everything hurt. He might have fallen. Down the stairs again, maybe. He felt bruised. Or maybe they had been in a fight. Yes, he thought he remembered a fight. Swords and shots and a thrown dagger. He thought Aramis was there, but that couldn't be. Aramis didn't go out with them. Athos' brain sloshed around his skull like the wine in his stomach.

Wine.

It was always the wine…

That didn't feel right. He didn't feel… he _wasn't_ drunk. That curious thought swam in and out of focus a few times. He wasn't drunk. He was certain of it. How very odd. But then… how was he here? And why… why was he so poorly? Why would Porthos be taking care of him like that if he wasn't drunk? Why…? Did Porthos know? Athos tried to focus. Tried to… tried to maybe… He opened his eyes.

He wasn't in his room. He knew his room, knew the view of the ceiling from his bed. This ceiling was higher, the room bigger. A large room… a room at an inn. The inn. They had been riding to the inn. It all came rushing back. The letter, the ride, the mission… And he hadn't felt right since the ambush. He remembered that. It wasn't the wine, he knew it wasn't.

He could see Porthos. He seemed to have removed Athos' boots and trousers now. Porthos was putting him to bed, but he wasn't even drunk. He had to… He tried to make his tongue move. It felt large and cumbersome in his mouth, dry and heavy, but eventually he forced it into action.

"I'm not drunk."

His voice sounded harsh and raspy.

Porthos' eyes flew up to meet his.

"I'm not drunk," Athos repeated.

"I know." Porthos' reply was brisk. Athos could see the muscles in his clenched jaw tick.

Porthos didn't believe him. He'd only said it to calm Athos down. He didn't believe him, he thought he was drunk. Always drunk. And Athos wasn't… he wasn't…

Porthos had taken his shirt off. And that wasn't right. He never did that. Athos would know. They'd been here so often, when Athos was actually drunk. But why would Porthos…?

Then Athos spotted it. Porthos' shirt was balled up on the floor. Balled up and… bloody. Porthos was bleeding. Athos looked up at him, but couldn't find a wound, only smooth skin shining golden in the candlelight.

What had happened? He wanted to say something, wanted to ask, but the thought wouldn't coalesce into words. He was so… he wasn't sure why… because he wasn't drunk, but he wasn't right either.

He watched Porthos take off his belt as well. And why would he do that? Was Porthos getting ready for bed? Surely, he'd want some food first. He had to pay, that's what Aramis said… Aramis? Was Aramis? The blood…

"I'm sorry," Porthos said.

Athos wanted to ask why. But then… Hands on his leg. Porthos lifted his leg from the bed and it was agony. The fire, the burn. The smooth leather of Porthos' belt on his bare skin and then Porthos pulled. The belt tightened until Athos felt like it was going to snap his leg clean off his body. He reared up in bed. Tears flooded his eyes. He wanted to scream, but there wasn't a sound, nothing he could hear above the rush of blood in his ears.

Porthos pushed him back down, his face so close to Athos'. Athos blinked away the tears, tried to see, tried to breathe, tried to hear the words on Porthos' lips.

"…blood… had to stop… the wound… your leg…"

Fragments of sentences washed over him, struggling to surface over the roar in his ears. Blood… and a wound… A wound to his leg, he remembered that. The ambush. But it was just a cut to the back of his leg, nothing serious. Just his leg, not his stomach, his lungs, his head, or even his shrivelled heart. He was fine.

Suddenly, Porthos threw a blanket over his legs and stalked across the room. The door opened and Aramis stepped in, carrying one of his bags and a steaming bowl that Porthos took from his hands. Maybe he'd finally brought dinner.

"How is he?" Aramis' tone was clipped.

Porthos blocked the door, didn't let him step inside. "Can you get some blankets? He's cold."

Athos wondered if he was. He didn't think so. He remembered sweating.

"Let me in."

"I don't think—maybe you could…"

"Step aside before I make it an order."

Athos shuddered. Aramis sounded… dangerous. He wondered why, why Aramis was so… Aramis had been upset, he remembered that. It had been hard. The forest, the ambush, the shots and the bodies. Aramis wasn't well.

"Aramis, please… Don't do this. You can't."

Do what? What was Aramis doing that Porthos didn't like?

"I will be the judge of what I can and cannot do."

Then Aramis was next to him.

"Look at me," he said.

Athos tried, but Aramis' face was fuzzy, swimming in and out of focus. He could see Aramis smile and wondered if it reached his eyes.

"Very good. I'm going to touch your throat now, all right?"

"Yes," Athos breathed.

Aramis put one hand on Athos' shoulder and with the other felt his throat. "Your heart is beating very fast. You must be exhausted."

Athos was. He wanted to tell Aramis that, but the effort seemed too much.

Aramis' hand left his shoulder and rested lightly on his stomach.

"Shhh," he said. "Try to slow your breathing. Deep breath. All the way to my hand."

Athos tried, but breathing was hard.

"Breathe, Athos. Breathe."

Why was Aramis telling him that? He didn't need to… he knew how to breathe. But somehow it felt comfortable to be told. Like settling into Captain Tréville's orders instead of thinking about everything himself.

"Well done. I'm going to touch your face now."

A finger brushed his lips, his cheek, and then a hand covered his forehead. It was so ridiculous, so tender. He'd been held by Porthos, but nothing like this. And Aramis… never. He wasn't one to caress anyone. His mistresses maybe, but not some recruit. Not him.

"You're very cold."

Athos wanted to tell him that he wasn't, that he had be sweating the entire time, but Aramis' hand did feel very hot against his skin. Hot and dry, and he realised just how much he'd been sweating.

"We'll get you some more blankets in a moment, warm you up a bit. But I'd like to look at your injury first."

"I don't think that's…" Porthos' voice sounded oddly pressed. "Can you ask them to send for the surgeon maybe?"

"I did ask," Aramis said. "There isn't one."

Porthos sucked in a breath through his teeth. Aramis smiled.

"Not that we need one. You're in the best hands already. We'll have you up and fighting fit in no time."

Athos wanted that. He didn't like this, this helplessness.

"I'm not drunk," he croaked.

Aramis chuckled. "Oh I know that. I wasn't going to start throwing bottles again. You're doing so well, Athos." Aramis' thumb rubbed a small circle in his hairline. "We'll have a look at that leg and then you can sleep. How does that sound?"

Good, so good. He couldn't wait for that. It would be so easy to sink back into the darkness, to forget the pain, to let go. It would be so good… so…

"Athos!" Porthos sounded scared and Athos couldn't figure out why. It worried him. What was there to be scared about?

"Try and keep your eyes open." Aramis sounded fine. "Can you tell me how you feel? That would really help."

Athos wanted to help, he wanted to say… He could keep his eyes open at least. He could do that. He looked up at Aramis, who was still smiling, and at Porthos' head behind him. Porthos' face was all eyes, so big and scared. Athos wanted to tell him it was all right, that there was no reason to be afraid.

Aramis lifted the blanket covering Athos' legs.

"Aramis don't…"

"Porthos, we'll take care of this. It's nothing I haven't seen before, I promise."

That didn't seem to put Porthos at ease and Athos understood why. Aramis had seen many things, many things he shouldn't have.

"Maybe let me…"

"Shh, keep looking at me," Aramis said to Athos, ignoring Porthos completely. "Keep your eyes nice and open. I'm going to have a look now. Keep your eyes on me. That would help."

Athos did. If it was going to help Aramis, he'd keep his eyes open all night. He could do that. He could help.

A small noise escaped him when Aramis' hand ghosted over his skin. The touch was so light and yet…

"Remember your breathing," Aramis said. "All the way to my hand."

"Are you sure you can..."

"I'm a musketeer, Porthos." Aramis' voice had gotten sharper. "I know our line of work and all that it entails. I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."

"But what if—"

"Thank you, Porthos. You've done very well. Can you help him turn over now?" Aramis put his hand on Athos' shoulder again. "I can't see properly like this. It'll be much easier on your stomach."

If Aramis thought that, then Athos agreed.

"Deep breath," Aramis said.

There must have been some silent signal, some sign that Athos had missed. He took a deep breath and then their hands were on him and they were lifting him, turning him, and the pain…

"Breathe, Athos."

He was breathing. It was so dark. His eyes… He needed to keep his eyes open, but the darkness… He couldn't… He had to… _Keep your eyes nice and open._ Breathing. Falling. Eyes. He could do that, he could… It was dark. He was falling. But Aramis… And Porthos. Porthos was worried. Worried about Aramis. About… Athos had to… had to… to…

When he woke, Athos was on his stomach with his head turned to the side, though he didn't try to open his eyes and see. He could feel. There were blankets covering his upper body. He wasn't sure if he was hot or cold, but he trusted Aramis and Porthos to know. He could hear their soft voices, a steady murmur somewhere far away.

There was pain as well, but that did not seem to matter much. It was there, in him, around him, everything was pain, but it just was… It didn't require him to intervene. He felt unable to move and his thoughts were still slow, but at least his mind was clearer now.

Breathing. He remembered that. He tried to breathe like Aramis had said. Breathing deep into his stomach, he noticed his awkward position. They seemed to have stuffed pillows under his hips, raising his bottom into the air. It was utterly degrading. More so when he registered the touch of a wet cloth on the bare skin of his buttocks and at the top of his thighs. Half-naked and at their mercy. The indignity.

He tried to protest, but all that came out was a sigh.

In an instant, there was a hand brushing the hair from his face, then a voice, Aramis' voice.

"Just cleaning you up," he said.

Cleaning him up. Athos didn't want to think about what that implied. In front of Aramis as well. A musketeer and his commander on this mission.

"There's quite a bit of blood, my friend," Aramis continued.

 _My friend…_ such a strange use of the word. They weren't of a comparable social class, nowhere close enough to be friends. And Aramis wasn't his servant either. One could sometimes consider a loyal servant a friend. But Aramis? Athos had nothing to offer him. He had no standing within the garrison. Despite his current limitations, Aramis far out-ranked him. And he had Porthos. Aramis had no need of another recruit. No use…

Athos recognised the beginning of the usual dark spiral of his thoughts and tried to steer away from it. No descent into madness tonight. Instead, he latched onto his companions' voices, trying to make out the words as they spoke to each other.

"There's so much blood," Porthos said, his voice shaking.

"You have to suture it," Aramis said. "He's already lost too much."

"And then he'll live?" Porthos sounded so desperate and Athos wondered why.

"He might."

"Might?"

"With that amount…"

"Tell me he'll live!"

Aramis sucked in a breath. "He's very weak. But if you don't stitch it, he's sure to die."

Dying. Well… that wasn't such a bad thing. It sounded quite appealing. For one, nothing would hurt anymore. In his body, his mind… He could just not _be_ any more. Death sounded good, welcoming even. Death… Such a familiar thought. Anne would be there and Thomas… His wife, his brother… his life… He could let go and be free. He could drift away and return… be with them again, back in his old life, happy and whole. Flowers and fields in spring. Anne's hair and Thomas' smile…

But…

Would they want that? Want him? For all his yearning… He'd failed them. Had failed to protect them, to care… He'd killed them. They… They would hate him. He… He wasn't… They would all be in hell for their actions. Visions of their joyful reunion turned sour. Anne running towards him across the flower-strewn fields… The looming shadow of the tree he'd made her gallows darkened the memory… The darkness… the darkness of the house. Always so dark and grand… and in the darkness, a figure greeting him. Thomas. Lifting his hands, stretching his arms… bleeding. So much blood. And he was going to die…

No.

He wouldn't. He wouldn't go back there. He had escaped that hell. He wouldn't, not ever, set foot into Pinon again or see La Fère. He never wanted to see that accursed place again, the graves and their ghosts… He wouldn't. If death was to be with her again, Anne, the wife he hadn't known, the monster he hadn't stopped… If death was that, then he would never die.

"I can't!" Porthos' voice cut through the darkness. "The stitches don't hold. I'm making it worse."

"You're not." Aramis' voice was calm with not even a hint of the panic that was so evident in Porthos'.

"It's not working!"

"It's a deep cut. One layer at a time. We've got plenty of catgut."

"What layers? I can't see layers!"

"You start deep and then you move up. It's easy."

"You do it then!"

"I can't. It's one thing to fire a musket, but my hand isn't steady enough for this." For the first time, Aramis sounded sad.

"Then he'll die!" Porthos was shouting now and Athos wanted to tell him that he wouldn't, that he'd made up his mind and that he didn't want to die.

"I can't," Aramis repeated quietly. "But you can."

"How?" Porthos sounded close to tears.

Athos heard one of them take a deep breath.

"I will tell you," Aramis said, completely calm.

"There's no time for teaching. Athos..."

"I'll tell you every step. I'll show you, Porthos. Be my hands."

The hands… so often he'd seen Porthos be Aramis' hands and his legs. Fetching and carrying at first and then more recently… So often he'd heard Aramis talk Porthos through a sword drill, had seen him correct stances and mentor in taking shots his own hands would not allow him to complete… Athos respected him for the way he taught, even if he had doubts about whether Aramis would ever be or indeed had ever been the highly skilled musketeer the garrison gossip made him out to be. Maybe there was time for teaching now. Maybe Porthos would succeed… Maybe Athos would make it, with them and because of them

Pain spiked in his leg and swept through his body. Athos tried to breathe. Deep breaths, like Aramis had said. _Deep breaths._

"Very good," Aramis said and Athos was pleased that he was praising him. "Here now. Then tie it off."

Porthos grunted a response. Of course, Aramis was speaking to him.

"That's it," Aramis said. And whatever _that_ was, it flared like fire in Athos' leg. He tried to breathe. Keep breathing. To his embarrassment, a low moan escaped him.

"How the hell is he awake?" Porthos asked.

Aramis didn't reply. Instead, Athos felt fingers card through his hair. "It's all right," Aramis said. "It's just me. I'm sorry I'm hurting you, but it's just me…"

Athos found that odd. It was clearly Porthos causing the hurt, not Aramis. But Porthos… Porthos was Aramis' hands… Aramis' responsibility. And Athos knew what that felt like. Responsibility…

"Not long now, my friend. You're nearly done and then you can rest."

As much as Athos liked the sound of rest, it also felt frightfully close to that eternal rest he didn't want. But the pain… He tried to move, tried to get away from it.

"Shh, calm now," Aramis said. "Can you keep still for me?"

Athos wanted to say yes. He was no stranger to pain. He could keep calm, he could stay still. He'd had long years of practice with that.

"Hold him down," Porthos said. "If he moves…"

"I don't think he will."

He wouldn't. He wouldn't die and he wouldn't move. He wouldn't do anything. Not unless they told him to.

Aramis was talking again, but Athos struggled to make out the words. Still, he clung to the low murmur of his voice. Occasionally, words surfaced above the din. _Stitches_ and _catgut_ and _mop up the blood_.

The blood. Athos wondered if Aramis should be doing this. Porthos certainly seemed to think he shouldn't see Athos like this. But Aramis was fine. So calm and assured. His voice was low and steady, talking to Porthos the same way he'd talk him through a sword routine. Porthos had told him that Aramis had taught him how to ride. Some feat that was, with Porthos still not trusting any horse beyond his own placid gelding.

And now this. Aramis was talking in the same quiet voice he used for his nervous mare. Athos didn't mind that Aramis was teaching, that Porthos was learning, and that his skin was the blackboard for those early attempts. He focused on being good. Staying still, staying conscious, and staying alive. He could do that.

Aramis' voice drifted away. Athos was quite comfortable like that. Everything around him was soft and quiet. Whatever noise there was, was dulled. Whatever he felt, too. It wasn't the usual haze of wine. He felt like he was floating, like a boat heading towards the horizon. There were waves, waves washing over him… Dark, cool waves…

A particularly sharp pain took Athos by surprise. He whimpered.

"Shh," Aramis said. "Nearly there now."

He sounded far, far away. Athos was falling once more, further and further away from them, into the darkness. And suddenly it didn't feel good. Suddenly it was deeper and darker and he didn't want to go. He didn't want to. He wanted to be there, with them, but the waves carried him along. Falling, floating… Far, far away until Aramis' voice was only a whisper on the breeze…

"Here, take my hand…"

Fingers closing around his. He realised he had a hand then. For so long, his attention had been focussed on his leg. Warm fingers were squeezing gently.

"I've got you."

Like a length of rope thrown to a drowning man, Aramis' hand pulled him in. He was still floating, but he stayed closer now. He couldn't understand a single word, but Aramis' voice was still there and sometimes a grunt or sigh from Porthos as well. They were both there and so was Athos. There, with them. And that felt right.

Floating, floating… there were waves of cold, of darkness, and of pain. But there was also Aramis' hand. His anchor. He couldn't go too far, not with Aramis holding his hand. He didn't want to go, because he knew where he'd go. Back to that place. Back to her. Back to a life where he wasn't a recruit, where he didn't get told where to go and what to do, where he didn't have this…this… He'd never be cut down in an ambush, would never find himself in some inn, injured without a qualified surgeon to take care of him, but he didn't want that other life. He just wanted to stay right here, with them.

"Sleep."

Sleep… he was so tired. He wanted to sleep. But he wanted to stay. He couldn't let go. And in sleep he wouldn't know, wouldn't be able to control his thoughts, his breath… In sleep he would go… go to that place… Sleep, sleep was dangerous.

His hand was squeezed, fingers entwining with his. Another hand in his hair, on his forehead. A big hand, and warm.

"Sleep now. We'll keep watch."

They'd keep watch, they'd keep him safe. They'd gotten him so far. Maybe, just maybe, it would be all right. Maybe he could let go, could sleep and wake up. The waves came, lapping at his restraint, slowly pulling him deeper. They were soft and warm and dark, so wonderfully dark… And somewhere in the dark, the words…

"We've got you, my friend."


	10. Blood Loss (3 of 3)

**Blood Loss (Chapter 3 of 3)**

Athos woke with a gasp. How he had gotten any sleep at all was unfathomable. His heart was pounding as if he had been in a fight and he drew in air in erratic pants. And yet he was still in bed, having done nothing to warrant such exhaustion.

"Slow your breathing if you can," Aramis said.

Marvellous. Next he would instruct Athos to breathe with him like a governess nursing a sickly child.

But Aramis did no such thing, instead occupying himself at the small table next to the fireplace on the far side of the room. It was a simple room, illuminated by candles and dancing firelight. The furniture was sparse and non-descript, but at least the place seemed clean. There was a pile of discarded clothes and sheets next to the door, stained dark with what Athos assumed was blood. He spotted Porthos, slumped over in a chair and fast asleep.

"We wore him out," Aramis said with a smile.

"He sutured my wound," Athos said slowly, remembering.

"Yes." Aramis looked over at Porthos with great fondness. "He saved you. I'm sorry for the pain I caused."

"But—"

"Shh. I'd rather you remembered it like that. Porthos would never hurt you."

"Oh…" Athos grappled with that. He wasn't sure if Aramis was taking credit for something he hadn't done or if he was leaving the credit to Porthos while absolving him of the guilt he'd surely feel.

"Can you swallow?" Aramis asked, apropos of nothing.

Athos frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

"When the body is… in great pain, men often can't. I didn't dare to give you anything to drink earlier, but you must be thirsty."

Athos hadn't thought about that before, but now that Aramis mentioned it, he did indeed notice that his throat was very dry. "I assume so."

Aramis held out a bowl. "The innkeeper gave us some broth."

"Give her my thanks." Athos attempted to sit up in bed, but hissed through his teeth when pain flared in his leg.

"Let me help." In an instant, Aramis' hands were on his shoulders. "Hold your leg."

Athos did, surprised by the sheer amount of bandages under his braies. His leg was thick and clumsy in his hands, almost a foreign object to him.

With Aramis pulling and Athos pushing with his uninjured leg, they manoeuvred him into a sitting position against the wall. Athos tried to heed Aramis' earlier advice and slow down his breathing, attempting to manage the pain as best he could. Aramis waited patiently, perched on a low stool. Thankfully, he kept his silence.

Athos gestured for the bowl and Aramis handed it to him. Athos tried to hold it, tried to close his hands around it, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Only Aramis' quick reaction prevented the broth from spilling. Athos stared at his arms, lying limp on the blanket.

"May I?" Aramis gestured at the bowl, then at Athos.

Athos averted his eyes, overcome by embarrassment, but did not decline. Aramis made no comment. He simply tipped the bowl against Athos' lips and let him drink. Small sips. Slowly, very slowly. Athos focused on swallowing, not wanting to look at Aramis. Even that simple action tired him. Everything was so laborious, so exhausting that night.

"Some wine?"

Athos' eyes snapped up. "I don't need wine."

Aramis smiled. "Just a little, to get your strength back."

Athos pressed his lips together and shook his head. He knew Aramis' stance on his drinking very well and he would not give him that excuse to look down on him. Not that night.

"I mean it," Aramis said. "You need some fluids now and this will fortify you."

The wine smelled nice, rich and heavy. And Athos wanted… anything to keep up his strength, anything to not be so weak any more. Aramis let him drain the whole cup, once again in small, small sips.

"Why are you doing this?" Athos asked when Aramis set the cup aside.

Aramis looked surprised. "I do nothing out of the ordinary, my friend."

"Don't call me that. I'm not your friend."

Aramis frowned. "Why not?"

Athos looked away, looked at Porthos, looked at all their bloody shirts. "I have nothing to offer you."

For a while, Porthos' gentle snores were the only sound in the room. As the silence lingered, Athos' awkwardness grew.

"Does he never wake up?" he asked, directing his irritation elsewhere.

Aramis chuckled. "Rarely. It worried him when he was looking after me. It would worry him now if he knew."

Athos had nothing to say to that. Again, they sat in silence. Athos felt sleepy, but knew that lying back down would require Aramis' aid. He had no desire to ask for it.

"I was nothing," Aramis said. "Back then, I couldn't eat, I couldn't move, I couldn't speak. I could only scream. I truly had nothing to offer."

"You were still a musketeer."

"Was that what you saw?" Aramis let the question hang between them. "And when you first saw me I was… much improved. Is that what you see now? A musketeer? I know you see me when I fumble."

"I saw you in the forest."

"I know. You always do, Athos."

"You're still a musketeer. You have that commission."

"For how much longer? You must wonder. When will Tréville take it from me?"

"He wouldn't."

"And why not? It's been half a year now and I'm hardly back to normal. And without my commission, what would I be?"

"Your experience, your status… you have many things."

"My status lies in my commission," Aramis said. "And my experience… is that what you want from me, Athos?"

"I do believe it is what mended my leg today."

"We'll leave the mending to God. I was merely a tool. It's not that, Athos. It's not about the clothes you wear or the things you know. Look at Porthos. There's barely enough material left in his shirts to patch them together and he doesn't wear that pauldron and yet… It's about who you are inside. It's about your kindness."

Athos bit down firmly on the inside of his lip. He did not appreciate the course of this conversation.

"And again, I have nothing to offer in that regard," he said, keeping his voice tightly controlled. Kindness had not been part of his upbringing and he thought it unlikely that he would add it to his arsenal any time soon. Kindness was weakness and there was no space in life for that. Kindness was also too close to love and he knew what happened to those he loved.

"With respect," Aramis said. "I disagree."

If anything was tedious about being an ordinary soldier, it was the way in which people felt free to disagree with him. Athos had never come across that before, had never had his every statement questioned. Surely, he could at least be trusted to know his own mind.

Aramis put aside the crockery and washed his hands in a bowl by the fireplace.

"I would like to look at your bandages before you go back to sleep," he said, his voice bearing no trace of their disagreement. "If you can lift your knee a little, we might not have to get you onto your stomach again."

Carefully breathing through the pain, Athos managed that much. He gritted his teeth while Aramis probed the bandages, pressing at various points, then slipping his finger underneath.

"They aren't too tight?" Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head, not entirely trusting his voice.

"Can you move your toes?"

Athos obediently wriggled his toes. It was painful, but then again there was very little that wasn't.

"I'm glad," Aramis said and smiled at him.

"I won't die then?" Athos asked pointedly.

Aramis stared at him and Athos met his gaze. He would not pretend he didn't know what they had said.

"Very well." Aramis nodded. "I won't make promises. Wounds get infected, fevers kill, bodies weaken. Your life's in God's hands. But for now, the sutures hold and there seems no lasting damage to your leg."

To get him lying flat again was a protracted and agonising affair. By the end of it, Athos was reduced to panting again, pain threatening to overwhelm him. His vision darkened at the edges once more.

"Let me elevate your legs," Aramis said. Athos barely registered the additional hurt.

"I promise, it helps," Aramis assured him as he bedded his legs on what seemed to be a pile of pillows and clothes.

As odd as the position was, gradually Athos could feel his vision clear. His breathing and pulse eventually settled into a more ordinary rhythm.

"Why both legs?" he asked.

"It's not so much about the injury," Aramis said. "Simply makes it easier for your heart. Imagine having to carry water up the stairs all the time. Much easier to have it flow down to where it's needed."

Athos wasn't sure how he felt about having his body described as a bathtub, but decided to let it rest for the moment.

"You know a lot about wounds," he said instead.

Aramis shrugged. "I've seen a lot of wounds in my time."

"It seems more than a casual acquaintance."

Aramis looked at him. "We are soldiers. We all need to know how to stitch a wound."

"You guided Porthos."

Aramis glanced over at the man still snoring in the corner. "I couldn't ask for better hands."

"Nor he for a better teacher."

Aramis lowered his eyes. "You observe a lot."

"You are a physician."

Aramis huffed out a laugh. "I'm not."

"You were. Before…"

"I'm nothing but a soldier." Aramis held out his hands, the tremor barely perceptible now. "Always have been, even when these were still sure. I'm no learned man, Athos."

"But a skilled one."

Aramis stared at the hands that lay in his lap again. Athos gave him his time. When Aramis looked up, he was smiling broadly.

"Exceptionally so, yes."

"It is your kindness," Athos observed.

"Yes," Aramis confirmed after a brief reflection. "I think it is. And… thank you."

"For what?"

"For giving me… this."

"This?"

"The chance to… to see it again, to…" Aramis breathed in deeply and ran a hand through his hair. "I was the regiment's medic, once. And I thought that… that I had lost that. And maybe I have. Maybe my hands will never… But I can still do this, I can… I know enough to be of use."

"You doubted?" Athos asked.

"We all do." Aramis looked him firmly in the eye. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he did truly doubt. His skills as a medic, his place among the musketeers, maybe even his place in the world at large. There was no use for injured soldiers, Athos knew that. He'd spent his life driving past crippled beggars in his carriage and had brushed their grimy hands from his boots. Their fate had gained a new poignancy now, being a soldier himself and seeing what soldiering did. He knew that if this wound crippled him, he'd have options, but he also recognised that men like Porthos and Aramis did not.

"Sleep now," Aramis said, spreading another blanket over Athos. Athos wondered how they ever did. How could they find rest, knowing what they did? Did they go into fights hoping that at least death would be swift? That they wouldn't linger in anguish? That they wouldn't end up… like Aramis?

"You think too much." The ghost of a hand lingered on his hair. "We're here. I'll keep watch over you both."

Maybe that was it. The kindness. The friendship. Being there and keeping watch. Knowing that someone was there.

"Don't put weight on that leg. I've got you."

He certainly did. Athos wasn't standing so much as he was draped over Porthos. His back leaned against Porthos' broad chest and his fellow recruit had closed his arms securely around Athos' midriff.

Athos freely acknowledged that he was utterly unable to stand on his own, but he would much prefer to be tortured than to have help with this particular matter. In front of him, a chamber pot stood on a stool, waiting to be filled. An impossible feat.

"It's fine," Porthos assured him. "I've done this for Aramis plenty."

There was an affirmative noise from Aramis who busied himself with something on the table. Athos could imagine the truth in that, given Aramis' lengthy malaise. He could also imagine the embarrassment it held.

"You'll do it for me one day," Porthos continued. "We all do. It's just one of those things."

One of those things, not being able to take a piss on his own.

"I'm not looking," Porthos said, tightening his hold.

Athos sighed. It shouldn't matter, but it did. He looked over at Aramis and found him still bent low over the table.

"You shouldn't be upright for so long," Aramis warned.

Yes. Athos had noticed that himself. He focussed on the task at hand. Tried to ignore Porthos' warm presence. Tried to ignore Aramis trying hard to look busy. Tried to ignore that he was doing this in front of his companions. Tried to… do it.

"I can't."

"It's fine, Athos." Porthos said. "Just relax."

"No, I mean… I genuinely can't. There's nothing there."

Aramis' head shot up though he remained studiously turned away.

"When did you last relieve yourself?"

Athos fully expected his head to burn as his face blushed, but nothing happened. Maybe his body was more comfortable around them than his mind. He swallowed heavily.

"Around midday."

Aramis hummed thoughtfully. "You need to drink more." He waved a hand in their direction. "Abandon that mission for now."

Aramis tactfully waited until Porthos had settled Athos back onto the bed before staring at him intently, undoubtedly noticing things about him that Athos didn't know himself.

"Your body is not releasing any liquids because you've lost a lot of blood," he said. He poured water into a cup and Porthos helped Athos drink from it.

"What does that matter," Athos said.

"It matters quite a bit."

"It wasn't even a serious injury."

"Athos!" Porthos cried, sounding oddly outraged at the simple observation.

"It very nearly killed you," Aramis said.

Athos huffed. He had had… certain thoughts the night before, but in the light of day they seemed quite ridiculous.

Aramis moved the still-empty chamber pot and sat down. "Have you ever been injured before?" he asked.

"Of course." Athos remembered grazed knees as a child, welts from his father's punishments, then later the cuts and bruises that came with clumsy sword practice.

"Seriously injured?"

Athos avoided looking at them. "I know a serious injury when I see it."

"Then why did you not tell us about this?" Porthos' voice was uncharacteristically sharp.

Athos would not let himself be the accused here. Surely, he had been uncomfortable enough throughout all of this. "And trigger the next panic for the sake of one small nick? I think not."

"There wouldn't have been any panic if you hadn't tried to die on us!" Porthos shouted.

Aramis held up a hand to stop him.

"I don't think you understand," he said.

"I think I understand very well," Athos said. "Better than some jumped-up field medic, for sure."

"How dare—"

"Porthos." Aramis' voice cut off Porthos' protest like a knife.

"You saved his life and he…"

"It's not common knowledge." Aramis remained composed. "I assume you think of serious injuries as those to the head, the heart, lungs or stomach?"

"Of course." Athos was unsure where this was leading. He did not consider himself an appropriate judge of what knowledge was commonly held, but certainly this was a basic understanding of medicine that everyone shared.

"And rightly so," Aramis confirmed. "But others can be just as deadly."

"Spare me the dramatics," Athos said. "It was my leg. Men have legs amputated and stay alive."

"After their wounds are sutured, cauterised, and bound."

"Look at this!" Porthos shoved dirty, blood-stained linens at Athos until Aramis pushed his arm away.

"Blood loss kills," Aramis said. "We don't know how or why, but we know that it does."

"Of course it does. Everybody knows—" Porthos interjected.

"Not everyone has been in battle." Aramis tone softened as he turned from Porthos to Athos. "Most think it's healthy to bleed. Learned men and surgeons and all."

Athos nodded. He'd always had exquisite medical attention and all their physicians had stressed the benefits of bloodletting for a wide range of maladies. Bleeding did not only cleanse wounds, it also restored balance to the body.

"I disagree," Aramis said. Athos smirked. Of course. A soldier who by his own admission had no medical training at all knew better than the scholars.

"I've seen it so often," Aramis continued. "Men with seemingly minor wounds. Their heart beating, their breathing unimpaired… then a little later they are dead in a sea of blood."

It was difficult to not be affected by the evident pain in his voice.

"How was I to know?" Athos said briskly. He hated his own incompetence and ignorance of the basic facts of soldiering.

"You weren't. You are learning these things. But we would have known if you had told us."

"I am no needy child and perfectly capable of looking after myself." Athos did not appreciate the insinuation of feebleness.

"Let us help."

Help. They helped so much and yet he was so weak, so incredibly inadequate. Athos: the noble prick who had never been hurt, who knew nothing of the basic truths of soldiering. Athos who couldn't handle the first injury he received, who hadn't even realised that this would be a regular feature of his life now. He looked up at these men, saw the scars on their faces and knew there were so many more, painting patterns on their skin. Each the memory of a wound, of potential death… He shook himself. These thoughts lead nowhere. Nowhere good.

"You were somewhat preoccupied," Athos said, trying to sound superior rather than vulnerable. To sound like he didn't need help with absolutely everything.

"There is no higher priority than your life, my friend."

"What would you have done then, in the forest?" Athos asked, venom in his voice. "Would you have cried on me? Screamed that blood back into my leg? You were afraid before you ever knew of my injury. I didn't dare to ask for a halt."

"Don't talk to him like that," Porthos thundered, but Athos imagined the slightest hint of doubt in his voice. Maybe he remembered the fox. The fox that could have been an innocent child. Porthos knew he was right. Athos rounded on him instead of Aramis who still looked rather serene.

"If it wasn't for your misguided attempts to prove he was well, none of this would have happened. You make me complicit in your lies and then lay the blame on me when they collapse around you. This behaviour is despicable."

Almost as despicable as Athos being even weaker than Aramis. Weaker than a man who hadn't been fit for duty for half a year, whose mind was addled… but still a man who could and did help him.

"Enough." Aramis' command cut across any reply Porthos wanted to make. "I would much rather have spent the night in that forest than watch you fall from your horse, insensible to the world."

"Like you could have."

"That was not your choice to make." Aramis said. "I can do many things for the life and health of a friend."

"I do not need to listen to this from a man who shoots a fox because he cannot distinguish the animal from his demons."

"Then listen to it from your commander."

"You have not earned that term." Athos sneered. He would only take so much military hierarchy from a man who clearly wasn't fit for it. It was not in his nature to bow to his inferiors.

"Tréville has."

Captain Tréville. Athos' imperious thoughts ground to a halt.

"He will have a thing or two to say when he hears that you needlessly endangered your life and nearly lost it in the process."

He would indeed have something to say and Athos knew what. He'd been told, had been warned that very first day… Captain Tréville had been willing to accept him as a recruit and to conceal his identity, under the condition that he would not use the regiment as a way to suicide. The threat of a burial in shame held little meaning to him now, but the threat of exclusion, the loss of the only stability, the only purpose he had in life…

"I see you understand." Aramis' voice was even, but his eyes were sharp, boring into Athos', seeing things that Athos would prefer to keep hidden. They looked at each other for a long time, barely registering Porthos fidgeting in the background.

"He does not take a threat to the lives of his men lightly, no matter where that threat comes from." The meaning in those words cut deep. No matter where that threat came from. No matter if it came from a man's own hand. Athos stared at Aramis. He understood, then, that he wasn't the only one facing that struggle.

"You need to let us know," Porthos said, with more kindness than Athos deserved. "You endanger everyone when you hide an injury."

When you try to do well… when you try to help, to protect… when you try to be more than you really are…

"Like Aramis," Athos said thoughtfully.

Porthos' brows drew together. "What? No. Aramis is—"

"Exactly like that." Aramis smiled. "You're right. I made the same mistake."

"You did nothing wrong," Porthos said, squeezing his shoulder.

Aramis put his own hand above Porthos'. The tenderness was unbearable. "I did," he said. "I wasn't well. From the ambush onwards, there was a growing panic in my mind and I could not fulfil my duty."

"You did admirably, given the circumstances," Athos said.

"I didn't ask if either one of you had been injured, I neglected to check. I let my need to reach the inn cloud my judgement." Aramis huffed out a humourless laugh. "I never even managed to reload my pistols."

"You weren't alone," Porthos insisted.

Aramis looked up at him. "No, but I needed to tell you so you were aware of my limitations. You couldn't have guessed that I was unable to defend myself."

"I saw that you couldn't reload." Suddenly, Athos was painfully aware of his failure to act upon what he saw. "I should have spoken out."

Aramis smiled at him. "You shouldn't be forced to make guesses about my well-being. If you do, you're bound to get it wrong. I need to tell you, reliably so."

"We all do."

"Even when we think it's a minor injury."

Athos lowered his eyes. "Even when our weakness is embarrassing."

"Never that, my friend." Aramis reached out a hand for him, but Athos didn't take it. Instead he plucked idly at the thick bandages around his leg.

"This is our life then," he said. "Blood loss and injury."

"It won't remain your only one," Aramis said. Athos smiled ruefully at that. It certainly wouldn't. He'd seen Aramis bathe. The longest-serving among their trio sported a veritable labyrinth of scars.

"But we're here for that," Porthos added.

Aramis looked over his shoulder at him. "I wanted to keep this light and tell him he'd still be as handsome as ever. Scarred buttocks and all."

Porthos chuckled. "You can be here for ogling those. But we're both here for taking care of him."

"And of you," Aramis said softly. "You carry a lot of weight."

"Broad shoulders," Porthos said with a shrug, but Athos could tell that the words affected him. For all the kindness he gave, he seemed unused to receiving it. Athos sympathised.

"Gentlemen," he said. "I would be honoured to face future misfortune with you."

Porthos grinned and gave Aramis' shoulder another squeeze. There was a slight glint of moisture in his eyes. Athos gave silent thanks for the lack of liquids Aramis had diagnosed him with. Those two were utterly unbearable.

"As much as I wanted to be alone for all eternity," Aramis said with a wink. "Porthos here sticks to you like a rash."

"That had not escaped my attention," Athos said archly.

Porthos shook his head. "You can't do that, be all alone. You need someone to look out for you."

"To suture your wounds," Athos added.

"To hold you and feed you and sit with you. To pick up the pieces when you break," Aramis supplied.

"You're not broken."

Athos watched Aramis carefully when Porthos said that. Saw the moment he closed his eyes, saw the way he leaned into Porthos' touch. Finally, Aramis looked up again, looked straight at Athos. There was understanding, the shared knowledge that they were broken, but that they were also here and determined to stay. But there was also a silent agreement that Porthos was not privy to. The agreement that when they teetered at the brink, they would give each other the assistance they needed to stay.


	11. Scars (1 of 2)

**Scars**

Porthos lit a fire while Aramis saw to Athos. The evening was pleasant and the ground dry, with plenty of material to feed the flames. He watched Aramis dab at Athos' split eyebrow.

"With any luck, this shouldn't leave a scar."

Of course, Porthos had known it was only a minor injury, but it was good to hear Aramis say it.

Athos smirked. "Luck… I see. I shall look like Porthos then."

Even better to hear Athos' sense of humour hadn't been compromised.

"You wish." Porthos laughed and waggled his own badly scarred brow. "Nothing the ladies like more than the rugged handsome look."

"Oh, so true..." Aramis brushed his hair from his face and stared wistfully into the campfire. "Just the other night..."

"Don't..." Porthos said. "Nobody wants to know about how Madame Pelletier enjoyed her tour of your scars."

"Oh, but I have this lovely long scar right down—"

"Stop!" Porthos threw a pinecone at him. "Really, we couldn't care less. Save it for your sweethearts. Not a single swooning lady 'round here."

Aramis batted his eyelashes at him. "But it's the highlight of every tour… the climax you might say…"

Porthos groaned. He could feel his face burn brighter than the measly little fire. Why, oh why did every conversation with Aramis have to turn into something sexual? Since he couldn't really ask that, he continued to pelt his friend with pinecones. At least that meant he didn't have to speak about how very handsome and popular Aramis was.

Eventually, Aramis retaliated with a half-burned twig.

"Mind the pauldron," Porthos said, brushing the soot from it and craning his neck to inspect the damage. So far, he'd kept it remarkably clean given the places they'd been to. He had to make sure to look his best. Bad enough that he couldn't oil it properly while they were on the road. He didn't want to risk any stains.

"Might as well add a little character to it," Aramis said. "Like scars do to a man."

Porthos covered his eyes. "Figures your character would be below the belt. I don't even want to know."

"There's an interesting story behind that scar—"

"One that you're going to keep to yourself." Porthos raised his voice, trying to drown out Aramis' recounting of a tale that invariably involved a trip to some married woman's boudoir.

Aramis wouldn't be deterred. "There was this lady in whose orchard we'd pick fruit for my father's brandy…"

Porthos was absolutely certain he did not want to hear anything about that lady and her relationship with the long scar in Aramis' nether regions.

"Athos," he said instead, trying to chase the images from his mind. "What about you?"

Athos only reply was a questioning glance.

"Your scar," Porthos clarified, pointing to his own mouth. "Were you… you know… born…"

Athos nodded. He didn't look offended, which was something. Actually, he looked quite open and relaxed. Athos was a private man and Porthos didn't mean to pry.

"I was born looking like a rabbit," Athos confirmed. "Affectionately known as the hare-lipped monster."

Porthos grimaced. He'd been called monster in the past, but nobody had any business calling Athos that.

Aramis drew in a breath through his teeth. "Children can be cruel."

He didn't mean cruel in the ways the children in the Court could be cruel, but Porthos guessed he was right. Words could be pretty cruel as well.

Athos smirked. "Quite right. However, it was my parents' assessment of my monstrosity that carried more weight."

His parents? They couldn't possibly…

"They loved you just the way you were," Porthos said with conviction.

"How could they?" Athos replied. "By all accounts, my mother cried for weeks from the shock and disappointment of birthing such an abomination. She couldn't tolerate my presence until the defect had been concealed."

"It's not a defect," Aramis said.

Athos shrugged. "Well, it was hardly an acceptable look for a firstborn."

Porthos frowned. They were talking about a baby. How could there be an acceptable look for a baby? Adults, yes. But babies, who'd go about judging them? He shook his head. "That shouldn't matter."

This had not turned out to be the slight distraction he'd wanted. Athos rarely talked about himself. They knew he was a nobleman, but none of this was ever spoken about. Porthos tried to imagine the pressure on the eldest son of a nobleman. A bit like having younger kids to look out for at the Court, probably. Only that there were many of them. Hundreds, thousands? However many people a nobleman had to look out for.

"Thankfully, my father summoned a surgeon," Athos said. He gave Porthos one of his rare crooked smiles. "The matter was resolved to everyone's satisfaction."

Aramis nodded. "Facial sutures are difficult. Particularly…" He indicated the upper lip. "That surgeon was a man of great skill."

"The best my father could find," Athos confirmed. "He'd remind me frequently that most infants with my condition are abandoned or left to die. I owe him a great debt."

"He was your father." Porthos didn't want to believe that being kept alive by one's own father would qualify as a great debt. And yet… he knew better. He'd been lucky to have his mum. But Athos'd had his and she didn't even want to look at him.

"And his son was a freak," Athos said. "No man expects to father a hare."

A son with a split lip. A son with dark skin. No man wanted an imperfect son.

"It doesn't make you any less of a man. It doesn't matter," Porthos insisted.

"Well…" Athos smirked again. "I could hardly be a musketeer looking like I did. His Majesty wouldn't want to look at _that."_

Porthos frowned. Athos was everything a musketeer should be. "It wouldn't matter," he said. "He's grown used to me after all."

Athos nodded slowly, looking at him intently. Porthos wondered what he saw. A moor? A slave? A lesser man? Or, at least, the son of lesser people? He didn't ask, never said any of that.

"How did you get your scar?" Athos asked.

Porthos traced the long line down the side of his face. It wasn't something he thought about a lot. It was mostly his skin that mattered to people. "Just soldiering," he said. "When I was still in the infantry."

"Looks like it could have cost you your eye."

It could have. And then, where'd he be? He shrugged. "It's nothing."

"It's a bit more than that," Aramis said like it mattered to him.

"It's fine," Porthos said. "Some doctor fixed it up and I can see."

"How did it happen?" Athos asked.

Porthos chuckled darkly. "Not watching my flanks, like you always say. I wasn't very good back then."

"Good enough to save our lives," Aramis said. He had a tendency to speak for the whole regiment. As one of the longest-serving musketeers, maybe that was his right, but Porthos found it annoying. Not everything in the regiment was about Aramis.

Porthos turned a dry twig over in his hands, uncomfortable with how much attention they were paying to his past. He looked at Athos. Athos would understand. Athos who didn't like talking about himself. But Athos looked at him with interest. It was only fair, probably. Athos had been very open with them. Didn't mean Porthos liked talking about the past.

"Was my first time seeing musketeers up close," he said.

"Was my first time seeing you," Aramis said.

Porthos snapped the twig between his fingers. "You were there?"

Aramis nodded.

"When was that?" Athos asked.

"May 1624, down by the Spanish border," Aramis said.

Porthos glared at him. More than two years and he'd never said. More than two years and by rights it should all be long forgotten. And instead… this. Aramis. There.

"Right before the Treaty of Compiègne?"

"Which wouldn't have been signed without Porthos," Aramis confirmed.

Now that was ridiculous. "I didn't do anything," Porthos said. Certainly nothing to do with any treaty. He could barely sign his own name back then. There'd been better people around that day. Tréville, of course, and now apparently also Aramis.

"You saved our lives," Aramis repeated. "And our mission."

"What was your mission?" Athos asked, leaning forward.

"Theirs was to go across a bridge into Spain," Porthos said. "Ours was to hold that bridge until they came back."

Aramis leaned against a tree, stretching his legs out towards the fire, settling into his usual story-telling pose.

"We had certain… preparations to complete for the treaty," he said. Porthos hadn't questioned that then and he certainly wouldn't now, content in the knowledge that those who needed to know about those preparations did.

"The border is formed by a river in that area. There is only one bridge across," Aramis continued. "We knew we would be noticed. We took enough men to create diversions, to protect the main party, but we knew we'd be caught. We needed a speedy escape back to France, to safety. To be captured would have meant questioning, torture, and execution, the usual inconvenience."

"In addition to a failure to negotiate the treaty with the Dutch."

"Precisely. So we left France's best to hold the bridge for us."

"Porthos."

"My regiment," Porthos corrected. "We were stationed down there. Tréville asked our captain to send a few men up to the mountains. Watched the musketeers ride 'cross that bridge. Tréville stopped and spoke to us. He was very kind. Told us he relied on us, thanked us, even."

"What happened?" Athos shifted in his seat, clearly interested.

"Nothing much for a few hours." Porthos drew patterns in the dirt with a stick, not looking at them. "We waited, waited some more. Finally, early afternoon, the Spanish attack. There's them on their horses and us on foot. They didn't want to cross and be caught in France. Maybe thought it was a trap, more soldiers hiding in the trees or something. But they wanted us off that bridge. A few of the boys ran. Don't blame them. It was frightening with the horses and all."

Porthos fell silent, still tracing lines and circles on the ground. He remembered every detail. The ground shaking under the thundering hooves, the dust rising. The soldiers reining in their mounts as soon as they reached the bridge. Shouting words at them that Porthos couldn't understand.

"We had a horrid time of it," Aramis continued. "We got what we needed, but they clearly expected us. Word had gotten out about our mission. There were some at the court who were a little too friendly with Spain. We were flying back to the bridge, hoping to not find it held against us."

Porthos snorted. "You would have fought your way out. Elite soldiers and all."

"We weren't in any shape to fight. Reynard had been killed, Tréville shot and most of us were injured as well." Porthos looked up to find Aramis staring at him. "We needed you there, Porthos."

"I did what I was told."

For a moment, all three were silent, listening to the crackling of their small fire.

"You didn't see who gave you that scar?" Athos asked eventually.

"I was fighting another," Porthos said. "Thought there was no one over there. Well. Should have checked."

Athos winced. "A dreadful wound."

Porthos stared at his boots. "Just knew I couldn't see. Was all blood. I though my eye was gone for sure."

"When we rode towards the bridge, there were two men left standing," Aramis said. "One French, one Spanish."

Athos hummed in appreciation. "A tremendous achievement."

Porthos shrugged. "I had a job to do." And little hope left. Half blind or dead… not much of a difference between the two. He might as well help that nice captain while he could.

"We reached you when you fell to your knees."

He'd let himself fall when they'd made the bridge. He didn't say that though. They'd use it against him, make him out to be some sort of hero he really wasn't.

"I'd done my duty," he said.

"We got there just in time… ran through the bastard trying to kill you."

"I remember the horses… then… nothing."

"Can't blame you. You were in quite the state."

"Anyways… it's fine now." Porthos added more wood to the fire, then stopped. Aramis was still staring at him. "What?"

"I'd never seen anything like it," Aramis said. "We were the first ones across. Then I hear Tréville shouting for me, turn around to see him on the ground, still on that bridge. Figured his wound was worse than I'd thought, but no… he's holding an infantryman. You."

Porthos shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to think about how helpless he'd been, although it warmed his heart to think that Tréville had held him.

"We have that ham for dinner," he said. "And with some proper sticks we could grill some bread. That would be nice."

Nobody took the bait.

"What did you do?" Athos asked.

"They got me to a surgeon and I'm here today," Porthos replied in place of Aramis. "And I'm hungry. Anyone else?"

Neither of them moved.

"Half of your face was blood," Aramis said, looking past Porthos. "I couldn't even see the eye, it was all… Somebody got my bag, some water to clean the wound. The eye was still there and only a slight scratch across the lid, praised be the Lord."

"Did you…?" Athos let the question linger.

At first, Porthos didn't understand but then… It couldn't be. Not Aramis. He'd seen those hands at work, knew what they could do, but he wouldn't… not back then. Not when he was just some infantryman. He wouldn't have cared.

"You didn't."

Aramis wasn't a surgeon. And at any rate, he would have said. If Athos' father demanded gratitude for saving his own infant son, Aramis certainly wouldn't leave such a debt go unclaimed.

Aramis lowered his eyes and in that little gesture, Porthos knew the truth. "You did. But… why?"

He watched Aramis gnaw on his lip.

"Captain's orders. I was the medic."

"You patched him up out there?" Athos asked. "A wound like that?"

"He wouldn't have made it to the next town. I bandaged it. We got him to a shepherd's hut a little further down. At least he wasn't lying in the dirt."

"You stitched that in a shepherd's hovel?" Athos wasn't looking at Aramis any more, staring at Porthos' face instead. Porthos lowered his head, hoping his hat would hide the scar.

"My masterpiece," Aramis said. "And it sure wasn't wasted on a man like this."

Porthos could picture his smile, his voice sounding modest, but his eyes gleaming with pride.

"That is impressive," Athos said. Of course, he would. Of course, he'd make it even worse and…

"Only the finest stitching would do, for optical reasons as much as to maintain flexibility in the face…"

Porthos frowned and couldn't help but notice that everything moved as it should. There was no stiffness there. He had other scars that had hardened over time, turned knobbly and ugly. Not that one. His hand sneaked up under the rim of his hat, tracing the whole long line, so slim and straight. A sword wound to the face… You didn't see many men with that sort of scar. For good reason. Those who weren't dead were so badly disfigured, they hid in the shadows.

"You saved my life," Porthos croaked. He could tell by the looks they gave him that he had butted into a conversation he hadn't heard.

"As you saved mine," Aramis said. "That day and later, when you'd joined the regiment."

"You saved my life and you never said anything."

Aramis smiled. "You always say I need to be less full of myself."

"But you should have said."

"You don't remember any of it?" Athos asked.

Porthos tried to search his mind. "I woke up in a bed at an inn. The innkeeper told me I'd been feverish for days since they brought me in. Told me the musketeers' captain had paid for my room and board. Had left me clothes and weapons and a horse, and all of them weren't mine."

Porthos wiped his eyes, remembering the captain's generosity to some stranger who wasn't even under his command.

"It's the least we could have done," Aramis said. "We couldn't stay, but Tréville was very concerned."

"Did he ask you to join the regiment then?"

Porthos shook his head.

"I think he expected you to find your way to the garrison when the time was right," Aramis said. "Didn't think it would be so soon."

"You were the first one I met at the garrison," Porthos said, recalling that day.

Aramis chuckled. "You were a sight for sore eyes having walked all the way from the Pyrenees, that scar still bright red on your face."

"You didn't remember Aramis from before?" Athos asked.

"He couldn't have. I was one of many masked riders," Aramis said. "And afterwards…"

Aramis looked into the distance, kneading his jaw. There was something else, something he wasn't saying.

"Afterwards?" he prompted. Aramis jerked back to the present and smiled distractedly.

"My face still remembers it."

"Your face?"

Aramis rubbed his chin. "Very vivid memories."

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not that as well. "I…?" Porthos couldn't get the question out. He knew what he could get like… Sometimes when he was hurt, he could… Oh no, please…

Aramis nodded and smiled. "It was only natural."

"Natural to hurt the man who saved my life?"

"It would have been instinctual," Athos said. "I assume your last memories were of fighting."

Fighting hard enough, staying alive long enough for the musketeers to make it across the bridge. Fighting through the pain, the blood. The horses and then… nothing.

"You woke as I was finishing the sutures," Aramis explained. "You couldn't see much, probably had no idea where you were. You were in a lot of pain and I was the one causing it. Of course you defended yourself."

"I'm sorry. I never meant to… I'm so sorry." Porthos' face burned in shame.

Aramis winked at him. "I got you back eventually. And really, my own fault for not moving fast enough."

"No, I should…"

"We should have restrained you. You live and learn. Tréville held you down after that."

"Tréville was there?"

"Wouldn't leave your side. Well, he needed me to look at his arm afterwards."

Porthos buried his head in his hands. "But what if I… I could have hit Tréville."

"Well you know…" He could hear the amusement in Aramis' voice. "Rather him than the man who's got a needle in your face."

"No!"

"Sure, sure, just hit me…"

Porthos groaned and looked at him above his fingers. "I didn't mean to. But I could have hit the captain."

Aramis nodded slowly, like he was weighing the options. "True. If that's the choice, I'll always volunteer to be punched."

Athos got up and rummaged through their saddlebags for the ham, bread, and wine. Porthos sat and stared at Aramis and Aramis stared back. That man… that man and his hands, his fine delicate hands that could save lives as quickly as they dispatched them. Porthos looked away at last, looked at his own hands and thought of the destruction they wrought.

They sat sheltered under some trees, looking out onto rolling fields as they had their food. The warmth of the day had turned into a mild evening. Their mission had gone smoothly and they felt safe where they were. Everything could have been perfect, but Porthos couldn't stop thinking about what he had learned.

Aramis was the reason he still had his eye. Aramis had saved his life back then. Aramis had done all that and never said a word. And now… now he acted like it didn't matter, like it wasn't anything special. Just another anecdote, something to be talked about around the fire. And if Athos hadn't asked, heaven knows if the truth had ever come out.

They sat in silence, all leaning against a large fallen tree. They looked out at the setting sun and lengthening shadows while Porthos mulled this over.

"Aramis," he said at last. "Why didn't you say?"

"Hmm?" Aramis already sounded half asleep. "Say what?"

"About my scar. I never knew it was you."

Aramis shrugged. "We weren't friends at first and then… I wasn't going to tell you while you learned how to ride. And afterwards, it just never came up… until now."

Like it had to come up specially. Like anyone could forget about that. Like a huge facial scar wasn't a daily reminder. Porthos had seen himself in the mirrors at the palace. He knew it was impossible to miss, much less for the man who had made that scar what it was, who'd called it his masterpiece.

"Porthos?" Aramis put a hand on his leg. "Does it matter?"

Porthos shifted away from him. "Yes, it matters. My life matters to me. And having it saved. And don't say it didn't need saving. You said I wouldn't have made it back to the town."

He drew his legs up close to his body and hugged his knees to his chest.

"I'm not disputing that," Aramis said. "You knew that all along. But why would it matter that it was me?"

"Because…" How could it not? How could Aramis care so little when he obviously cared so much, when everything he'd done was caring and kind? To know that Aramis had… Porthos couldn't think of anything that mattered more.

"I'm the medic. It's what I do," Aramis said.

"But you did it for me." And that was it, really. That Aramis would do this for him. That he did it and cared.

Aramis chuckled. The sound was harsh in Porthos' ears. This wasn't a laughing matter.

"Give me a few more months and there won't be a musketeer I haven't stuck my needle in. It's work I enjoy, but it's just that. It's work."

Porthos made no reply. He stared at the horizon as it slowly faded in the dusk. Aramis put a hand on his knee again, leaving it there until Porthos finally looked at him.

"We take the lives of bad people," Aramis said. "And we save the lives of the good. That's being a musketeer."

The words had barely left his mouth when Porthos reached over and crushed Aramis in a fierce hug. Just being a musketeer. Just being one of those men who cared so much. Cared about him. Cared enough to save his life before they even knew him.

Porthos sniffled, and soon that turned into tears running down his face and into Aramis' hair. Aramis must have felt it, but his only response was to let his body go lax, moulding it into Porthos' embrace. Porthos didn't hear him move, but soon Athos' hand appeared on his back, just resting there, calm and reassuring.

When Porthos finally sniffed, let go of Aramis, and wiped his eyes, he expected his friends to laugh at his emotions, or to smile at the very least.

"Sorry. Sometimes it's…"

Athos nodded and met his eyes evenly. "It gets too much. I understand."

"I don't," Aramis admitted. "Anyone would have tried to help in that situation. Thank God I was given the skills to do it well."

"Not anyone," Athos said. "And not with such compassion."

Porthos took a deep breath. "I knew about Tréville. He was so kind to us when you rode out. I still remember every word. And then he paid for all that. I'd never even slept at an inn before. That's all…" He patted his chest. "That's all written in here."

"Porthos…" Aramis put his arm around his shoulders. "He'd do it again any day."

Porthos cleared his throat, trying to shift the big lump that choked his voice thinking about how right Aramis was.

"Not many men do," Athos said.

"No," Porthos said. "And you…" He looked at Aramis. "You did all that for me when you didn't even know me." He clutched the leather above his heart. "That's in here forever."


	12. Scars (2 of 2)

**Scars Ch2**

The day was pleasant. At least that's what Aramis told himself. It was warm, but not too warm. Dry, but not too dusty. The road was wide, safe, and well-maintained. Everything was fine. A very pleasant ride. And pleasant company, of course, because they always were. He loved riding with them.

Only, he loved it more when Porthos was happier. Not that he could blame him, of course. Not that he should or that he wanted to, either. He'd underestimated how much his involvement in the eye scar would mean to Porthos. Had underestimated how unusual love and care and a bit of kindness were to him. He hadn't meant any harm in revealing his part in it all, nor in keeping it from Porthos for so long. That had happened without much thought. He didn't regret it as such but did regret how it affected Porthos. He just… wanted Porthos to be happy.

Of course, there wasn't anything majorly wrong. Porthos was fine. He answered when asked a question, he smiled when Aramis made a joke, he spoke to the people at the tavern they visited for lunch. But most of the day, he was lost in thought. It felt like riding with a second Athos.

The real Athos kept shooting not-so-covert glances at his new double. He frowned and sometimes directed his horse to trot closer to Porthos' Joseph. On more than one occasion, he even started a conversation.

Overall, the day was fairly dull. Nothing was wrong, but nothing was right either.

They rode until nightfall and for once Aramis didn't nag Athos into stopping earlier or stopping at an inn. The rowdiness of an inn felt wrong, somehow, like it would disturb Porthos. And disturbing Porthos felt very wrong. As much as Aramis wanted him to be happy, he knew that sometimes you needed time to think through a thing. He was determined to give Porthos that space and kept his distance.

When they dismounted and made their camp for the night, they still didn't speak more than necessary. Aramis fidgeted. They didn't need many words between them. They'd been riding together for a while. They knew what to do, what to expect. Which was a good thing, of course, but also really annoying sometimes when the silence seemed to stretch into infinity. Space was fine. Time was fine. But this was getting too much for him. He started to worry that he'd done something very wrong.

They ate their meal with no more than a few perfunctory comments about the weather, the horses and their progress with the mission. Aramis watched Athos watch Porthos who still seemed lost in his thoughts.

Usually, that was more Athos' domain. He was so taciturn it could be a real task to understand him sometimes. Now, for once, Athos' thoughts were plainly written on his face. Did he even know how clearly his love for Porthos showed? Aramis felt the overwhelming urge to tease him for it but held back. He didn't want him to ever stop.

"Aramis," Athos said, startling Aramis from his reverie. "I do believe you owe us a story."

"A story?" Aramis echoed.

Athos took a sip from his hip flask. Despite the dim light, Aramis could see a rare twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "We have both regaled you with tales of our scars," Athos said. "The rules of fair verbal combat demand you retaliate in equal measure. If memory serves, there is a hitherto unknown story behind a certain scar in your nether regions."

"Ah…" Aramis' thoughts ground to a halt like a stubborn mule and then nearly bolted like one, too.

"Don't encourage him," Porthos said. He had no idea how badly Aramis needed encouragement. He hadn't told the story behind that scar for years. At least not the real story.

"I may have to specify that I was not requesting an exhibition of said scar," Athos clarified.

Porthos huffed out a small laugh. It was music to Aramis' ears.

Aramis grinned as he settled more comfortably across from them. This called for a thrilling tale. He'd do his very best to get more of those little laughs out of Porthos.

Athos smirked. The fox. He knew exactly what he was doing. Ever the tactician.

"I don't hear that often," Aramis said, moving his hand slowly along the inner seam of his trousers.

Porthos groaned, but still looked at him with interest. He was game, then. Well, Aramis would be happy to deliver.

"It was years ago." Aramis swallowed down his nerves. "So long ago that this—" He twirled the ends of his moustache. "—was only an ambitious dream."

"So young and already…" Athos let the implication linger.

"A fervent servant of God," Aramis said, lowering his eyes in a manner that could be interpreted as either demure or coy.

That earned him a chuckle from Porthos and an eye-roll from Athos. Encouraged, he continued.

"I had spent the past year in a monastery, a novice, serving the Lord to one day take my vows."

"Had spent?" Athos asked. "What made you leave?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," Aramis said with what he felt passed as dignity. "The abbot felt that my path might lie elsewhere. Anywhere, as long as it was outside of his monastery. I have to confess, I agreed."

"Dispatching souls to hell rather than guiding them to heaven."

That stung. It was one thing for Aramis to joke about it himself, but for another to say it so casually… It didn't matter. That wasn't the point. His grief about his monastic misfortunes wouldn't make Porthos any happier.

"Wherever the Lord may put me, I shall strive to guide souls to heaven."

That was met with dual huffs from his friends. Time to step up his game. If he could make Porthos laugh, properly laugh, ideally at him, things would go back to normal. He was certain of it.

"There I was, a young boy, denied what I had seen as my calling, on the streets with nowhere to turn."

"So you turned to the first pretty lady."

Aramis crossed himself. "Far be it from me to do such a base thing. I turned to the bible, of course."

"The Song of Songs, no doubt," Athos interjected.

"Luke. The parable of the prodigal son," Aramis said. "It's about—"

"I know," Porthos said. "The boy who spends all his father's money and then he's given more."

Aramis grimaced. Accurate, but not quite what he was going for. "A father who gladly receives his son who had been lost and then was found," he clarified. "It gave me great hope."

"You returned home?" Athos asked.

"Indeed. No fat calf was slaughtered, no music or dancing, but they were all glad to see me." And disappointed, of course, but he didn't say that. He still saw his father's face in front of him, the exasperation. They'd hoped he'd finally found his place, that he was safe. From himself most of all.

"Much joy and merrymaking," he continued. Much sadness and despair. "Who wouldn't be glad to have me back?"

Porthos grunted but smiled despite himself when Aramis batted his eyelashes at him. Eyelashes were good at catching stray tears.

"Once home, of course, I had to earn my keep. And my father decided I could dedicate myself to the brandy making business he ran on the side." Mainly, his father had decided to keep him out of sight of their neighbours. After previous… events he wasn't all that welcome around town.

"And you got bored," Athos said. Well, yes. That. He couldn't really deny that.

"I worked hard. On one warm day, I was out picking apples in a nearby orchard. It was so hot, I had to remove my shirt. I was just a skinny lad, you see, and out of practice after a year spent indoors and mostly on my knees."

Porthos shook his head and huffed out a breath but he didn't protest, which Aramis counted as a success.

"The lady of the house spotted me and asked me inside to take some refreshments. I couldn't refuse such a gracious offer. It would have been terribly ill-mannered." What if he had refused? Told her thank you very much and he was perfectly fine where he was. What if he had never stepped foot inside that house? What if he had never… he shook himself and smiled at his friends.

"And your manners were, as ever, impeccable," Athos drawled.

"Naturally," Aramis said. "I thanked her profusely for her kindness and was about to take my leave when she noticed a little book I carried. It piqued her interest."

"Bible study in the field?"

"Orchard, my dear Porthos, and no, not the bible, but a book of poems."

Athos brought a hand to his face to hide his smile. "The lady was, I presume, a great connoisseur of poetry."

"It was a shared interest that resulted in a spirited debate." And that debate resulted… Oh he should never have spoken to her. But then, where would he be now?

"Debate," Porthos repeated and chuckled. "You always like a _debate_."

"Particularly a spirited one," Athos confirmed.

"I was a guest in her house and did my utmost to please my host."

"I'm sure it was a real _pleasure._ "

"She enjoyed my reading." Aramis stressed the last word. _Reading._ He'd always said reading, even in his thoughts. "We discussed the finer points of the author's intentions and were in the middle of the most wonderful analysis of a particularly fine line, when suddenly the door opened, banged shut, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn."

He had their full attention now and nobody dared to interrupt.

"There's me, and the lady, on the chaise longue, fully engaged in our poetic affairs, and then I, glancing over the edge of the book, notice a rather burly man stood right by our feet. Red as a beetroot and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog."

"The husband."

"Father, in this case." The father who had permitted his father to take the apples, who had put his trust in a simple man and his family. Trust that Aramis had betrayed. A promise he hadn't made but had broken with impunity. A face he had lost for his family.

Porthos whistled through his teeth. "Did you fight him?"

"While I fully appreciate the power of the written word, peering over that book I didn't see it as an adequate weapon against his sword. His sword that was rather close to…" He pointed towards his groin. "Best to not take any chances."

Porthos laughed, actually laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound Aramis had heard all day. With his fingers, Porthos made a cutting gesture and Aramis grimaced.

"Exactly."

"The evidence suggests that his mission was not crowned by success." Athos sounded utterly disinterested, but he looked satisfied. His plan had worked, it had brought Porthos out of his shell and Aramis was forever glad for his superior skills as a tactician.

"Praised be the Lord who blessed me with quick reactions," Aramis said.

"Not quick enough," Porthos said. It was so good to have him fully participate in the conversation once more. Aramis beamed at him.

"My progress was impeded by both the lady and a blanket draped across my body."

"A blanket." Porthos waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Athos smirked. If nothing else, Aramis was glad his misadventures served as entertainment for those two. He guessed there was some humour in it. At least for those who didn't know what followed.

"I move sideways, shielding the lady, trying to get away, trying to defend us. Then, suddenly, a pain sharper than anything I'd ever felt and I glance down and woah, you never want to see blood down there."

Both of them cringed. They probably wouldn't call it sympathy as such, but Aramis still appreciated the gesture.

"I didn't even know what he had cut. Looked around and nothing seemed to be lying on the floor, so that was something," he continued. "But he's still shouting and the lady screaming, and I decided to not stay and find out what else he could do with that sword."

"You ran?"

Holy heavens, he'd run. He'd never really stopped.

"Fast as I could. No time to get dressed, so there I was, fleeing the house shielding my modesty with the book."

Porthos guffawed at that. "Scaring all the maids."

"They'd hope it was a slim volume." Athos smirked.

While he'd been hoping the man wouldn't send the dogs after him, wouldn't come himself. Hoping that he could keep running, that he wouldn't pass out from the pain before he was safe. Wondering what safety meant any more, if there even was such a thing…

"Where'd you go?" Porthos asked.

Oh, yes, he had to continue the story, of course. Aramis swallowed around the lump in his throat and grinned at his friend. It was working, it was making Porthos feel better and talk to him and laugh. Clinging to that thought, he was almost certain he could make his smile reach his eyes.

"Knowing him, to church," Athos said drily. And it was good they were teasing him. It's what he wanted, why they'd started this whole conversation.

"Oh please. I was hardly in my Sunday best."

"Could have invoked the right of asylum, sought sanctuary." He could have, but… after everything…

"He'd just run away from the church," Porthos said.

"Yes, that's right," Aramis said to buy himself a little time to gather his thoughts. Sanctuary, yes. His tried and trusted sanctuary. "I ran back to my family. Again." He huffed out a laugh, trying too late to infuse it with a little humour. He hoped it didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

"Bet they were thrilled," Porthos said. "And no apples, either."

"No brandy," Athos added like that had been anyone's concern.

He hadn't gone home. His parents too easy a target, too well-known to his pursuer. Too obvious. Too dangerous.

"I went to my brother's," he said. Which hadn't been any better, really. Antoine'd had a baby at home and a wife. He didn't need… Aramis. But that wasn't… that wasn't the spirit of the story, that wasn't what he was trying to say. He bit the inside of his cheek, using the momentary pain to ground himself. "I needed help figuring out which pieces were still attached."

That made Porthos chuckle once more. "Bet he was _really_ thrilled to help with that."

"Should have seen his wife's face," Aramis shot back. Banter came naturally. This was fine. He could do banter.

"Would you believe it?" Porthos shock his head in mock surprise. "Just made one man a cuckold and then he goes and makes his sister-in-law faint?"

She'd been so kind. So kind even though he realised immediately that he shouldn't have come. But where else… there wasn't anywhere else to go. It's why he'd come back in the first place. There was nowhere else. He was young and he'd tried the church and what else was out there other than home? She'd sat him down in the kitchen and wrapped him in a blanket when he started shaking. She'd run to fetch Antoine.

"How bad was it?" Athos asked. His concerned tone told Aramis that he needed to work harder on his cheerful façade.

"All the bits were still attached," Aramis said. "All in working order."

Porthos groaned and rolled his eyes. "Spare us the details. Why've all your tales got to take so long?"

"You know you'd get bored without my tales."

"We'd talk about the weather and play chess. We might manage."

"Not sure you would." Aramis flashed them a grin. They probably couldn't see that in the dim light, but maybe it would show in his voice. "Good thing we don't have to find out. All fine and my brother patched me up."

"And other ladies with a keen interest in poetry have been rejoicing ever since," Athos said.

Aramis fluttered his eyelashes at him, wondering if noble Athos had any interest at all in _poetry_. He'd probably had private tutors all his life. For poetry, not _poetry._ Oh heavens, he was getting lost in his own innuendo now. He cleared his throat. "I aim to please."

Not his family though, not that day. Poor Antoine. Antoine who tried so hard to be respectable and responsible and every time he succeeded, Aramis dragged him back down. As a child when he'd been sent to live with them and ruined their father's reputation. Then again with Isabelle… and then… always ruining it.

"So selfless." Porthos gently punched his arm.

"Always." Aramis tried to join in with his chuckle. _Selfish,_ Antoine had hissed between his teeth while he stitched Aramis' wound. _Always so selfish._ His hands had been so gentle, his eyes so warm, but in his words… the despair, the disappointment. Because Aramis had said… he'd promised to be good, to not bring shame on their name again. He'd apologised, of course, had sworn to be better, and even as the words left his mouth, he'd known it would never be enough.

"What happened afterwards?" Athos asked.

So much. And nothing. Because in a way his life ended that day. A new one started, a very different one.

"I had one big scar now," Aramis said with a levity he didn't feel. "Figured I might as well add more."  
"So you went straight to the next lady," Porthos said. "Typical."

They didn't say that. They never said _typical._ But they thought it. He was different. The wild tomcat who won't stay in the house no matter how warm the hearth, how plentiful the scraps. Typical Aramis. He'd made his father's hair turn grey for years and that day he'd finally understood.

"I left that night," he said. "Figured I wasn't made for small town life. Figured I'd learn how to defend myself against the next sword that was pulled on me."

Leaving the house in the middle of the night, his fresh wound smarting. Traveling light, packing only what he could carry.

"Where'd you go?"

Aramis brushed his hair back with his fingers and sighed. "Joined the cavalry." He smiled ruefully. "Learned how to dispatch souls to hell."

Porthos laughed, a full, whole-hearted belly laugh, but somehow it didn't feel like a victory now.

He'd learned how to dispatch souls to hell rather than making life hell for them. His father's reputation in tatters once more. His brother so shaken, so tearful when he told him that despite all his apologies and promises, he'd have to leave. Aramis had known already. Two sisters of marrying age and who'd marry them now, with a brother like that? Who'd give his father and his brother work? Who'd want anything to do with them while he was around? So many tears that night, but they knew it was better that way. They didn't know it would be that night, expected him to stay while he healed, but he knew it was no good.

He slipped away before anyone woke, hoping he'd take his curse, the stain he'd always been on their lives with him. Take it all away, except for some bloody bandages and a note on the kitchen table.

 _My next return will be a happier one._


	13. Drowning

**Drowning**

"Explain to me, why we are here?" Aramis shook himself like a wet dog. His mare snorted, echoing his disapproval.

Athos glared at his friend from underneath the dripping rim of his hat. "To vanquish the Huguenot rebellion, as you well know."

"I've heard that before," Aramis grumbled. "And if it wasn't raining so hard, you could even see the place where I heard it, more than five years ago."

Athos didn't deign that worthy of a response.

Aramis stretched and massaged his right shoulder. "I swear I can feel that thrice-damned musket ball. It knows I'm close. Must still be buried in some field around here, where they dug it out of me."

"It's probably the weather," Porthos said. "Does it never stop raining in this place?"

"And why exactly are we out here in this weather?"

Athos nodded at the coach they were following. "Because the King is bored."

"Bored." Porthos sniffed. "He's not stuck in a leaky tent all day."

"He is not a common soldier. His suffering differs. He doesn't have the usual fox hunts and evenings at the theatre to distract him."

"What did he expect? It's a siege."

"Not all sieges are like this," Aramis said. "We took Nègrepelisse in two days, Rayon after six. Not that I was there for that one. I still had a great big hole in my shoulder thanks to this place."

"Not that you bear any grudges."

"It was painful and miserable. Seems to be something about La Rochelle." Aramis grimaced. "Still, no shortness of sieges in '22."

"I don't like them," Porthos said. "I was in Montpellier for months and in the end we didn't even win."

"Unfortunately, we have yet to find a better way to take these Protestant strongholds."

"Particularly one as magnificent as this." Aramis nodded towards the fortifications of La Rochelle.

"Much to Richelieu's and Tréville's concern, the king seems to grow rather tired of its magnificence," Athos said.

Porthos wiped water from his face. "So he drags us out here in this gale."

Athos smirked. "If your delicate condition requires that you stay indoors, I will ask Tréville to assign you stable duty instead."

"You wouldn't." Porthos sounded genuinely alarmed.

Athos hid his smile behind the upturned collar of his uniform. "Not unless you insist on questioning the will of our King. For my part, I look forward to inspecting the sea wall. They have made great improvements to it since that storm."

"Since the whole thing disappeared into the ocean, you mean," Aramis said. "It's as bad as ships, if you ask me."

"You and your fear of the sea…" Porthos shook his head.

"My fear of the sea? Watch it. You can't even swim!"

"So what? Do I look like a fish?"

"Not like you to be scared of a new skill. Except for riding, obviously. You learned that. Why not swimming?"

"I'm not scared." Porthos drew himself up to his full height. "But I'm not stupid. We're a cavalry regiment, not the goddamn navy."

"Praised be the Lord." Aramis shuddered dramatically. "My stomach would never take to it."

"There might still be missions in which you have to cross a river," Athos said.

Porthos shrugged. "Simple. I'll let you two swims. We live in a civilised country, where they build bridges."

"Bridges and other things." Athos stopped his horse. They had made their way around the jagged battlements of Fort d'Orléans and the views opened up across the mouth of the narrow bay.

Porthos whistled through his teeth. Athos found he agreed. To their left was the headland where the heavy artillery was facing out towards the sea and the English ships; to their right, the towers of La Rochelle could be seen through the mist. Straight ahead, however, lay what Athos had to acknowledge as the greatest feat of architecture he had ever seen, despite his familiarity with various palaces and cathedrals. It was more reminiscent of the magnificence of the ancient Roman arenas.

From the depth of the churning grey sea rose a wall, as broad as any of their land-based battlements, paved with slabs of stone and wide enough for several men to walk abreast. It jutted out into the bay for a hundred yards or so, an identical structure mirroring it from the other side. There was further construction clearly ongoing on both, possibly with the aim to link them in the middle eventually, thereby cutting La Rochelle off from the ocean and any reinforcements or provisions.

Athos stood close to the royal carriage, following the animated discussion Captain Tréville and the Cardinal had with the king. They advised him to remain in his carriage and admire the new construction from afar, but the king was adamant that he wanted to walk the full length of the bulwark. He would not be cowed by the inclement weather, or indeed by the threat of English cannons. He insisted on showing himself to his troop and any English or Rochellaise who might be watching through their looking glasses.

Athos had heard enough to know the king would not be swayed. He trotted over to where Porthos stood holding the reins of both his Joseph and Aramis' Angelina. A moment later, Aramis joined them, after bowing low to a group of men in strange uniforms and speaking to them in rapid Spanish.

"Who was that?" Athos asked. It was highly unusual to hear Spanish in these parts and rarer still to hear Aramis speak it.

"Ambrosio Spinola, Captain-General of the Army of Flanders," Aramis said in the tone of a love-struck maiden.

Athos frowned. "What is he doing here?"

What did a Spanish general want with Aramis? Hadn't the Spanish done enough damage already?

"Telling us that with this wall, the siege is already won," Aramis said.

"How'd he know?" Porthos asked. "That's ridiculous." He put his hand on Aramis' shoulder. "Alright?"

Aramis nodded.

"He knows a thing or two about sieges," Athos said. "The victor of Breda, which he took after 11 months. Incidentally also fighting off English relief forces." He nodded towards the west where the dark hulls of the English fleet loomed.

"Starved them out and watched them turn on each other," Aramis added. "Every man for himself, like they'd never heard of Christian love and charity."

Porthos nodded. "Guess that's what they say about the Protestants."

"Eh…" Aramis shrugged. "Gossip says many things."

Athos remembered the gossip of his early days in Paris… He glared at the retreating backs of the Spanish. Gossip about what they had done to the musketeers, to Aramis… Brothers in the same Catholic faith showing no love or charity at all. He shook his head. It did no good to dwell on past hurts. The Spanish weren't the enemies here.

"Gentlemen, the king wants to walk to the site of the construction." Athos waved off their protests. "I know. Captain Tréville and the Cardinal tried. He's insistent. Porthos, right behind his majesty. Anything happens, I want you to shield him. Aramis, stay on his left, towards the sea. Any danger from there will be long-range and require your aim."

"If I can get my musket to fire in this rain," Aramis grumbled.

"I'll stay on his right," Athos said. "With any luck, he will quickly tire of this excursion."

He didn't.

On the contrary, Louis seemed to be enjoying himself. He was soon dripping wet like the rest of them, but that did not keep him from darting back and forth across the bulwark. He sneered at the English fleet and the besieged city in turn, while one of the engineers attempted to explain the construction to him, jabbering on about sloped embankments and retaining silt to strengthen the structure.

Richelieu, in his full armour and billowing red cloak, stayed with the Spanish General. To Athos' displeasure, they decided to walk right behind Aramis. His eyes lingered on his friend, but Aramis showed no sign of being affected by their presence. He must wonder, like Athos did, if Spinola had any involvement in the attack at Savoy. Flanders was far from Savoy, but Spanish intrigue stretched across the world.

Athos glanced at Tréville and found his unease mirrored in his face. He shook himself. This had nothing to do with Savoy. They had more pressing matters to attend to. First and foremost, their monarch walking out into the sea in the middle of two enemy forces. The massacre, for all its horror, had happened nearly three years ago.

"Your majesty," Richelieu said. "Construction is still ongoing in this area. We shall return another time and admire its completion."

"Oh, but how much better to see the work in progress!" Louis was smiling broadly, undeterred by the waves crashing around them or the rain lashing their faces.

"We would not wish to interrupt the work." Richelieu narrowed his eyes. Athos imagined he was praying for patience. "It is of the utmost importance that it be completed quickly."

"Then we shall encourage the workers!" With that, Louis turned and strode ahead so confidently, Athos and his friends had to hurry to keep up with him.

Suddenly, a shout sounded from the nearby fort and was repeated along the line of soldiers on the sea wall. An English ship. A small frigate detached itself from the looming mass of the fleet and sped towards them.

"Your majesty, we should retreat," Athos said urgently. Louis stared at him, taken aback by being addressed so harshly and by a mere soldier at that.

The crack of a cannon echoed across the bay.

"Your majesty!" Athos stretched out his arm, attempting to block Louis' way, but the king pushed him aside.

"How marvellous," he cried, as answering shots rang out, smoke billowing from the broadside of several English ships.

Soon, the cacophony had them all shouting to make themselves heard.

"They are out of range," Aramis yelled as English cannon balls splashed into the sea a few hundred yards away from the wall.

"This one isn't," Porthos bellowed, pointing at the frigate. He now stood in front of the king, shielding him with his body. Shielding him from musket shots at least. They all knew a cannon ball would tear through more than one man. Fortunately, the frigate seemed set on using its speed rather than its artillery, manoeuvring across the middle of the bay in an unpredictable zigzag, making it difficult to target for the French gunners.

The ship hurtled closer, driven by the storm. The sea was pockmarked with shots that had missed their target. The besieged Rochellaise would be cheering, anticipating the arrival of fresh supplies. On the sea wall, Richelieu and Captain Tréville were screaming at the king to withdraw, to get himself out of harm's way.

He ignored them.

"Finally some excitement," he cried. He pranced from one side of the narrow causeway to the other, hurling insults at the English and Huguenots alike.

The Spanish had retreated, but with the cardinal, their captain, the engineers, and countless soldiers milling around, the musketeers struggled to stay close to the king.

"Drive him back," Athos barked at his friends and signalled for them to turn around and bar the king from walking any further towards the sea end of the wall. Louis barely seemed to notice, so caught up was he in the events.

"Huguenot scum," he shouted, shaking his fist at the besieged city. "You'll surrender to your king."

With an almighty crash, a cannon ball hit the bow of the frigate, tearing through wood and men alike. Louis cheered and rushed towards the other side of the wall to delight in their success. His delicate boots slipped on the wet stones. Athos rushed forward to steady the king, while Porthos lunged for him, but both of them came too late. Louis teetered at the edge of the wall, arms flailing. He looked to overbalance when Aramis grabbed him and swung around, thrusting him at Porthos, who caught the king round the waist, holding him tight.

Athos breathed a sigh of relief.

It caught in his throat when Aramis' feet slipped over the edge, the speed that had just saved the king carrying him over. Aramis' eyes were wide, his mouth open in surprise, as he fell backwards off the wall and into the churning sea below.

"Aramis!" Porthos' scream cut through the din of the sea, the battle, and the voices, like a knife into Athos' core.

Porthos handed Louis over to the onrushing Tréville and fumbled with his weapons belt. Athos took too long to realise what he was doing.

"Stop!" he screamed when he finally did, but Porthos did not even pause. He leaped into the sea.

Porthos couldn't swim. Aramis could, but Porthos couldn't.

"A rope, hurry," Athos shouted at the engineers.

He fell to his knees at the edge of the wall, peering over. He could make out Porthos' dark head in the midst of the spray but wasn't able to spot Aramis.

Porthos struggled to stay above water, being thrown back and forth by the waves, but bracing himself against the wall. And Athos wouldn't lose him, couldn't possibly lose them both.

A man came running with a rope.

"Porthos," Athos shouted, throwing the end of it towards him. It splashed into the water within arm's reach, but Porthos shook his head, took a deep breath, and dived.

Athos reeled the rope back in and held it ready to throw again, but Porthos didn't resurface. Athos scanned the waves. He had to come back up. Maybe the current had carried him further along the wall, maybe out towards the ships... He had to be somewhere.

Images flashed in his mind of their drowned and broken bodies, washed up at the beach. Images of death and devastation. They found English soldiers sometimes after an ill-fated attempt to reach the city. He shook himself. Not his friends. They lived. Had to.

Suddenly, Porthos' head broke through the surface again. He was gasping for air and thrashing wildly. He didn't pay any attention to Athos' shouting before he dove down again, clutching a main gauche.

"The king is safe," Tréville said, kneeling next to Athos.

Athos had never cared less.

Porthos was doing something. He must have found... or maybe he was still searching for Aramis. What hope did he have? The current, the force of the waves... the weight of Aramis' weapons. And nobody could hold their breath for that long. Aramis was... No, he couldn't be. Athos refused to believe it. There was nothing rational about it, but then again, when had Aramis ever been rational?

It had been too long. Too long and Aramis would never… But he'd done it once, he'd survived Savoy when nobody else did. Maybe he could…

"Porthos! Aramis!" Tréville's shout broke through Athos' thoughts.

A few feet below them, Porthos had reappeared, this time clutching Aramis. Aramis' body was limp, lifeless, held up only by his friend's strength and determination.

Porthos didn't have his hands free any more and was unable to brace himself against the force of the waves. As the water rose above their heads with every wave, Porthos was thrown against the wall several times. He never relinquished his hold on Aramis, shielding him with his body, but it was obvious that he struggled.

Athos fingered the rope, trying to come up with a plan. Captain Tréville snatched the rope from his hands and deftly tied a loop with a movable knot before throwing it out into the sea again.

"Put it around yourself, then draw tight," he shouted.

With some difficulty, Porthos caught the rope. Whether he hadn't heard the captain's instructions or whether he chose to ignore them, Athos didn't know. But instead of using the rope for himself, Porthos slipped it around Aramis.

"Don't you dare let go," Tréville roared as Porthos' head disappeared beneath the waves once more.

But Porthos kept one hand on the rope, the other on Aramis.

"Haul them up." Captain Tréville was first to the task, but Athos could feel other men join them as well. Together, they took the weight of the two men on the rope, momentarily buoyed by the waves. The sea was reluctant to let go of her prey. Athos' arms burned with the strain as the water pulled in the other direction, and pain licked at his palms, but he only had eyes for his friends. Porthos' hand in its dark leather glove the only anchor his first friend had to the land, the world of the living maybe. Porthos continued to clutch Aramis to his chest with his other hand while stretching his legs out either side of the still unmoving body dangling from the rope. He kept Aramis from being dragged against the wall with every pull on the rope.

Aramis' head lolled back on his shoulders.

A distance of a few feet stretched for miles before Athos could finally lean over and grab Porthos' arm. The sodden leather was slippery, but reassuringly real. He ignored the burn of the salt on his hands. For the life of him, he would not let go. Not now, when at least one of his friends' lives was within his grasp.

"Careful," Porthos gasped as they slowly pulled Aramis' body up. Aramis flopped onto the stone, his miraculously unharmed weapons clattering to the ground.

"Keep him on his side," Tréville shouted when several men made to lie Aramis flat on his back.

"How are you?" Athos asked Porthos. He grasped his shoulder, checking him for wounds. The sea was cruel and did not surrender her prey easily.

"Fine." Porthos waved Athos off. "Aramis…"

Athos eyed him critically. He didn't sound fine at all. He was gasping for air, awkwardly holding himself up on his elbows.

"See to Aramis. I'm fine." Porthos glared at him.

Athos turned around in time to see Aramis' body convulse. As disconcerting as it looked, Aramis was moving, was alive. It seemed impossible. Once again, a survivor against the worst of odds. His resilience was incredible. He retched and water flowed freely from his mouth. Tréville hit him between the shoulder blades with a flat hand.

"Let it all out, son."

Aramis sputtered, bringing up more water before sucking in air. Athos knelt next to him. Aramis' lips were blue, his face frighteningly pale. He coughed, water and air warring for supremacy.

"Easy now, easy," Athos said. "We've got you. You're safe."

He rested a hand on Aramis' shoulder as the slim body continued to shudder, caught in a cycle of coughing, retching, and gasping for air. Porthos would be better at this, but Porthos lay a few paces away, shoulders heaving as he recovered from his rescue mission.

At first, Aramis' hands grabbed at the stone as if he wanted to keep himself from being swept out to sea again, but slowly he calmed.

"The king?" Aramis whispered.

"Is safe," Tréville said. "Thanks to your intervention."

Another coughing fit shook Aramis. Tréville's hand lingered on his body. The thought was treason, of course, but Athos wondered who Tréville would rather see safe, King Louis or Aramis. At the moment, it certainly looked like the captain would give anything to see Aramis returned to the living.

Aramis relinquished his death grip on the stones and traced his fingers up and down his body.

"Anything hurt?" Athos asked, recognising that he was checking himself for injuries. Really, they should have done it for him, but Athos chose to interpret it as a good sign that Aramis was aware enough to do it himself.

Aramis continued with his examination until his hand came to rest at his shoulder. He shook his head, which immediately triggered more coughing.

"Where…?" he gasped out eventually.

Athos was at a loss, but Captain Tréville came to his rescue.

"You dropped your musket. It's safe, though a little wet." He smiled, clearly beyond relieved that his man was already thinking of his weaponry.

But Aramis repeated his question, fingers running over his shoulder. "Where?"

The old wound must be smarting again, even worse now after that exertion. Poor Aramis. It was about time they got him back to their tent and let him rest.

"Pauldron," Aramis spat out.

Oh. Athos exchanged an astonished look with his captain. Neither of them had noticed, but indeed, Aramis appeared to have lost his pauldron. At a loss, Athos looked at Porthos who had heaved himself into a sitting position.

Porthos shook his head. "I had to… it got caught under water, wedged between rocks, and I couldn't… I had to cut it."

Aramis' mouth formed a small, silent "Oh" as he dropped to lie flat on his back, breathing heavily as he stared up into the pouring rain.

All around them, men still shouted orders and shots broke like thunder across the bay.

Athos looked back and forth between Aramis and Porthos who was clearly clenching his jaw, not looking nearly as pleased with himself as Athos would have expected. Athos got the distinct feeling he was missing something. He wasn't privy to the full extent of whatever had happened here. To him, Porthos' explanation sounded perfectly sensible.

"He saved your life," Tréville said, as if that wasn't obvious.

Aramis closed his eyes. When he opened them again, a semblance of his usual smile had returned to his pale face. He rolled to the side and raised himself to his knees. Taking Tréville's proffered hand, he was dragged upright, and although he swayed for a moment, he stood his ground. Athos quickly hauled a groaning Porthos to his feet, clutching his shoulder in silent thanks. Thanks, relief, and great admiration of his courage and skill. Athos tried to put all of that into the glance they shared.

"At least you finally started to learn how to swim." Aramis' chuckle was hoarse, but definitely there.

Athos shook his head. It was a bit too soon for this return to levity. "Neither the location nor the time of year were particularly conducive to a first swimming lesson."

"Don't blame me," Porthos said. "All down to Aramis. He had to go diving in like some idiot."

"I was saving the king," Aramis said. "You, my friend, were clearly the idiot, diving in for no good reason. And since I know you're no idiot, you must have done it for swimming lessons."

"I was diving in for you and that is a very good reason."

Aramis laughed, which quickly led to more coughing. "You might not have noticed, but I'm not exactly royalty," he said when he recovered.

"You are to me," Porthos mumbled. A cacophony of shots drowned out his words to all but Athos who was walking right beside him. Aramis and Tréville, a few steps ahead of them, took no notice. The captain was walking somewhat closer to Aramis than usual, but Aramis' steps did not falter. Confident and steady, he walked back along that treacherous sea wall.

Athos was relieved when they reached firm ground again. This simple excursion had brought far too much excitement.

This sentiment was not shared by the king.

His majesty had stuck his head out of his carriage's window and was gesticulating towards them excitedly. Richelieu and the Spanish delegation stood off to the side.

"My hero," the king cried. "My saviour, my brave musketeer."

He beckoned for Aramis to step forwards. Aramis did so, bowing low. He did not speak. Athos suspected he was fighting another cough.

"So chivalrous." King Louis clapped his hands. "Like the good knights of old." He pointed at the Spanish general. "You don't have that sort of loyalty in the Spanish army. But my musketeers… soon their names will be legend."

"Your majesty…" Richelieu attempted to intervene before the King's idle words sparked another war. His majesty ignored him, entirely focussed on Aramis.

Athos' eyes met Porthos'. Porthos frowned and drew up his shoulders. Both of them were sopping wet. Aramis must be freezing in the strong wind. For as long as Athos had known him, he'd never coped well with the cold. Captain Tréville's gaze was fixed on Aramis' back while he bounced lightly on his feet as if he were unsure whether or not he could dare to intervene on his musketeer's behalf.

"We should make you a knight for your bravery," Louis crowed.

"I did my duty," Aramis said. His voice was hoarse. Next to Athos, Porthos drew in a sharp breath. He'd want to see his friend in dry clothes and a bed sooner rather than later. Athos agreed wholeheartedly.

"A hero's composure! A blue ribbon would suit you well. The Order of the Holy Spirit—"

"That would hardly be appropriate," Richelieu intervened.

Of course not. Aramis would never be able to demonstrate the required degrees of nobility. A common soldier could save the King all he wanted, but he would never be special. Athos shook his head. He'd gladly give his birthright to Aramis.

"The Order of Saint Michael, then." Louis changed track with remarkable surety.

He would never forget that order. He'd been handing out its black ribbons rather freely. In Athos' former circles, Saint Michael was known as the order of every man and his dog. And somehow also the order for a musketeer who had done a great service. But even that was a privilege. For all his shouting about chivalry, Louis only acknowledged Aramis who simply overbalanced when trying to rescue him, never Porthos who jumped in knowingly, risking his life to rescue his friend who might well have been dead already.

Eventually, Captain Tréville managed to extricate Aramis from the King's clutches and the three of them were free to find their horses and return to camp.

Porthos walked close to Aramis who looked rather peaky. Porthos was rarely in a contemplative mood, but the worry for his friend was clear in the glances he shot Aramis and in the way he hovered.

Athos followed close behind them. Close enough to watch Aramis shiver and to hear their quiet words.

"He'll never remember to knight you," Porthos said, shaking his head.

"Of course not." Aramis shrugged. "But it doesn't matter."

"You deserve that medal."

Athos agreed. But Aramis did not seem bothered. Or maybe he was simply resigned to a world that gave him few opportunities. Athos, despite his complete lack of heroism, would be the one most likely to become a knight, for no other reason than his birth.

"I'd much prefer a bowl of hot soup," Aramis said. "Maybe Madame Couture will oblige."

"She'd probably make you her second husband on the spot if you came back with a medal."

Aramis chuckled, which quickly turned into yet another coughing fit. Porthos thumped him on the back until Aramis spat out more water. Porthos flinched, seeing the effects of their misadventure.

"Tempting, but hardly the point of the exercise," Aramis said.

"The point being to nearly scare me to death."

"An entirely unintended consequence, my dear."

Their purposeful stride soon slowed to a crawl and conversation ceased when it became obvious that Aramis was too exhausted to walk and talk. He would never allow himself to be carried if he could avoid it. Certainly not in front of all of these men. But Porthos remained close, just in case.

They made it to their horses eventually and Aramis' relief was evident when he leaned against his mare, catching his breath. Athos mounted and waited for his friends. It was high time they got back to their tent. He was wet to the bone and he hadn't even been in the water. Aramis shivered violently and swayed where he stood.

"A hand?" he asked quietly.

Porthos groaned as he hoisted him into the saddle but didn't comment on Aramis' momentary weakness. The dreadful image of Aramis falling into the sea was still too fresh in their minds, burned onto their eyes. It would take time to recover, for all of them.


	14. Pneumonia (1 of 4)

**Pneumonia**

"Morning." Porthos blew onto Aramis' messy curls.

He smiled. It was rare that he got to wake Aramis, but the poor man had had quite the day. Deserved a lie in for sure, what with almost dying and all. Porthos shook his head. Too close for comfort, way too close.

When Aramis didn't move, Porthos blew into his ear. That prompted grumbling and made Aramis roll over, burying his face in Porthos' arm. Porthos flinched. Aramis must have found a bruise there. They'd all had a day of it; Athos and his poor hands as well.

Porthos ran his fingers along the side of Aramis' body, bed-warm, whole, and alive. He could feel his breath against his arm, could feel the rise and fall of Aramis' chest even under all his blankets. He was there, really there, nestled safely between them.

All winter long, they'd put their bed rolls close together in one big bedstead at the centre of their tent. That way nobody had to lie in the worst of the leaks and they could all keep each other warm. Porthos liked it that way. It was good to have his friends close, even at night.

On Aramis' far side, Athos sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, voice rough with sleep.

Aramis groaned. Athos put a hand on his shoulder, about the only piece of him he could reach between Porthos and all the blankets. "Aramis?"

"'m fine," Aramis said, rolling onto his back. "Nice and warm and comfortable."

And safe and alive. Porthos couldn't stop staring at him, watching him open first one eye, then the other.

"And entirely unwilling to get up," Athos added, prodding Aramis.

"He deserves—" Porthos broke off when Athos gave him a little nod. Of course, Athos knew. But he still probed… and Porthos understood. He wanted to find out if Aramis was actually unwilling or maybe… unable?

"I'm…" Aramis yawned, then groaned and burrowed deeper into the blankets. Porthos and Athos exchanged a worried look.

"You get your sleep," Athos said. "Captain Tréville will understand."

Aramis growled and got onto his knees, shrugging off the blankets. "I said I'm—"

He doubled over, coughing violently. Immediately, Athos was by his side, holding his shoulders.

Porthos used the distraction to sit up gingerly. His whole body ached. He tried to pinpoint the pain, tried to find out what really hurt, but couldn't. Everything hurt. He felt like… well, like he had jumped into the sea and been smashed against the rocks by those damned waves. He took a deep, steadying breath, but had to bite down sharply on his cheek to keep from crying out. _Merde_ , that hurt.

Aramis sputtered and wheezed. Porthos traced soothing circles on his back until he felt his friend relax.

"Stupid water," Aramis croaked. He gladly took the wine Athos handed him to soothe his throat.

Porthos ruffled his hair. "Why'd you have to go and drink it?"

"All in a day's work," Aramis said. "It'll pass."

He sighed and leaned back against Porthos. The sudden pain drove the breath from Porthos with a moan. In an instant, Aramis sat up again.

"What's wrong?"

Porthos smiled. "You hit a bruise."

"A bruise?"

Porthos rolled up his sleeve revealing deep purple marks along his arm.

"Much like you," he said, pointing to a dark spot on Aramis' wrist.

Aramis flexed his fingers. "Shame they didn't think to cushion those rocks." He yawned. "Sorry. Let me… I'll have a look at these."

He took Porthos' hand in his and gently felt his way up towards his shoulder. The skin was tender and shone with all the colours of a tannery.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry, I should…"

"It's just bruises," Porthos soothed.

"Really just bruises?" Aramis asked suspiciously. "Are you sure you didn't cut…"

"Not even a graze. I was in uniform."

Aramis nodded. "I'm sorry. Let me…" He made to untie Porthos' shirt, but his fingers were stiff and uncooperative and he fumbled with the laces.

"Shh," Porthos said, capturing his hands. "They'll fade in a few days. Don't worry."

Aramis was exhausted enough as it was, he didn't need to feel guilty on top of that.

"Just bruises?" Aramis looked up at him intently, eyes boring into Porthos', searching for the lie.

Porthos smiled. "Just bruises."

Aramis held his gaze for a moment, then returned his smile. "I'm glad. You could have..."

Porthos shook his head. "Don't go there. _You_ could have…"

Aramis traced the outline of a particularly large bruise. "Let's not dwell on it."

"Do I need to…" Athos let the sentence peter out, holding up his hands. Aramis had wrapped them the night before. He'd barely been able to stand, but he'd still taken care of Athos' injury. That's what he did, no matter what.

Aramis beckoned for Athos to sit down and carefully untied the thin strips of linen. Athos' hands were still an angry red, skin torn from the palms. A few spots had been bleeding. Aramis tutted.

"That's what gloves are for."

Athos ducked his head. "They were wet and I… I evidently wasn't thinking."

Aramis took a clean cloth and some water from Porthos. He pressed down on a burst blister and watched Athos struggle not to flinch. "This should remind you to wear them, at least for a few days."

While he cleaned the wounds, Aramis had Athos move all his fingers and clench his fists. It must have hurt, but Athos made no sound. Aramis nodded, seeming content with his findings. Injuries to the hand were difficult, he always said. Easy to lose feeling or the use of a finger or two. Easy to be maimed for life.

Porthos handed him his medical bag and Aramis applied ointment to the wounds before wrapping them in clean linen. He wound the bandages over Athos' wrists and tied them off on his arm.

"I tried to keep them as thin as possible," he said. "See if your gloves will fit. If not, you're wearing Porthos'. You're not getting these dirty."

Despite some half-hearted protest, they left Aramis in the tent when they reported for duty that morning. Porthos had brought him breakfast and Athos had left him with strict instructions to rest. Tréville suggested sending for the physician, but Athos assured him that Aramis was tired, but not injured in any way.

Tréville assigned them light duties. He didn't say so, but he was clearly letting them rest as well. The king was expected to be in a council meeting for most of the day and they were stationed outside the door to the council chamber. They were far from the fortifications there. The royal camp in and around the village of Aytré had its own set of walls and several regiments were quartered around the small Châteaux des Réaux in which the king lodged and held council. The quietest spot in the entire thing was probably right where they were stationed, away from the siege outside and the politics inside. It suited them. Athos wouldn't have to use his poor hands and Porthos wouldn't have to move too much.

Their post was what Athos called ceremonial. Aramis would call it pointless. Nobody was going to attack the king here, in the middle of the royal camp with tens of thousands of soldiers all around. Good thing Aramis wasn't there with them. He'd have started fidgeting within minutes and after an hour he would have had Athos hissing _"stop that"_ under his breath. Without Aramis, nobody said a word all day.

Porthos didn't mind. It was all part of being a musketeer. And really, the boredom was much better than yesterday's excitement. Poor Aramis. Hopefully, he was getting some sleep. It would have been nice to stay with him, but there wasn't any reason, really. Like Athos had said, Aramis was tired, not hurt. And well, a bit of rope burn or some bruises were no excuse to neglect their duties. They'd have been the regiment's laughing stock and more proof for the rest of the army that musketeers were prissy ponces.

Porthos shifted from one foot to the other. Maybe they had a point. He must be growing soft because these bruises really hurt. At first, they had only hurt when he moved, but now they also hurt when he stood still. He sighed. Right then, this wouldn't be a comfortable day.

He looked at Athos who stood still as a statue. He could have been. He was a beautiful man. There was no hint of pain on his face, no sign of his injury except for the knotted ends of the bandages peeking out between his right glove and sleeve. Had anything happened, Athos would have fought as well as ever, pain or not. Porthos had no doubt about that.

He did have some doubt about his own abilities. Standing hurt. Moving his arm barely an inch hurt. Clearing his throat hurt. Come to think of it, breathing was probably the thing that hurt the most. Shame that there was nothing much to be done about that. It annoyed him. He wasn't usually one to be terribly sensitive. He could take punches and kicks and keep fighting. He'd once kept fighting with half his face sliced open, and now he was damn near tears over some bruises.

The hours crawled by. A lavish lunch was served for the king, the cardinal, the generals, and whoever else was important. Not for them though, as Porthos' growling stomach remarked. Hopefully, somebody had brought Aramis some lunch. Madame Couture, most likely. She'd be delighted to help her hero out and to talk the ears off him while she was at it. Maybe she'd at least make sure he stayed in their tent and rested. For all his experience as a medic, Aramis was the worst patient. If standing around bored him, staying in bed all day was mighty close to torture. It'd do him good though. He really hadn't been himself that morning.

Porthos willed the church bells to chime faster. Not that it would make a jot of a difference. They'd be here for as long as they were needed, for however long the king decided to take talking to the others. And after that… Porthos wasn't sure what he actually wanted to do to escape the pain. Sitting down didn't sound any more appealing than standing up. It wasn't his legs that hurt, after all.

It wasn't just bruises, he decided at some point during the afternoon. There was no way bruises could hurt that much. Every breath felt like it was cutting into him and the slightest cough was agony. He'd probably cracked a rib or two. Bothersome, yes, but nothing too bad in the grand scheme of things. Aramis' treatment for cracked ribs was always the same—instructions to take it easy for a bit. And Porthos was taking it easy. Nothing easier than standing around all day. Really, there wasn't much of a point in telling Athos and making a fuss.

He knew how dangerous hiding injuries could be. But there was no danger here and there wasn't anything Athos could do. It was breathing that hurt and he'd have to be breathing whether he was on duty or off. No difference at all. Porthos made sure to take shallow breaths though so he didn't jostle anything he shouldn't. Aramis would probably have his head for that. A fully rested Aramis who'd done nothing all day would probably have his head for something either way. Best not provoke him.

After they had finally been relieved, they went straight to the kitchens. Old Serge was in his elements with many men to command and imposed an iron discipline with his ladle. Boys scurried back and forth, doing their best to look busy and escape his rants as they prepared the evening meal for the regiments stationed at Aytré. Serge waved at the two of them and handed them supplies enough for ten, asking after Aramis and sending his best wishes for a speedy recovery. They arrived at their tent laden with food and drink. Afraid he'd drop them, Athos had let Porthos carry the bottles of wine, which proved to be painful.

Back at their tent, not a single lamp had been lit and Aramis lay flat on his back in the middle of an untidy pile of blankets. His left arm was draped over his eyes. He didn't move. Porthos cursed, dropped the bottles, and flew to Aramis side.

"What is it?" he asked, dragging Aramis' arm from his face. "Are you—"

"Near death." Aramis sighed. "Death from acute and intense boredom. I've been confined to this tent all day since somebody…" He sat up and stabbed an accusing finger in Athos' direction. "…set up sentinels that ushered me back in if I took more than a minute to relieve myself."

Athos shrugged, unimpressed. "You were to rest today. Consider _me_ relieved that you did."

"Rest. I wish." Aramis gesticulated dramatically. "Madame Couture kept me company for three hours straight."

Porthos chuckled, relieved to see Aramis back to his usual self. "And you were still bored?"

"Yes, I was." Aramis huffed. "Somehow she thought I was _too delicate_ for any _more vigorous_ activity. And I wasn't allowed out." He glared at Athos. "So I was stuck listening to her retelling of every death by drowning that's ever happened around here. For three hours."

Athos smirked. "Nonetheless, we find you much recovered."

Aramis snarled at him. "Be quiet, you, if you want to wake up with all your limbs still attached."

"Speaking of limbs," Porthos said, lighting a lamp. "Have a look at his hands before you murder him. He can't even carry a bottle of wine."

"I'm not—" Athos started to protest, but Aramis interrupted him.

"Not even a bottle of wine. Now that is serious. Show me." Bickering forgotten, he carefully helped Athos remove his gloves and then untied the bandages. They had stuck to the open wounds in places. Porthos put a hand on Athos' shoulder to try and give him some comfort while Aramis picked at the linen.

Aramis was more focussed than he had been that morning. He carefully looked at each scratch and blister, cleaning and drying the hands, but not binding them again.

"I'd like to let these get some air tonight," he said. "But be careful." He gently held Athos' hands in his. "Thank you, my friend."

Athos looked away and didn't reply. Aramis smiled at Porthos instead.

"All right?"

"Ye—" Porthos stopped and swallowed. "Actually… could you have a look? Think I might've cracked a rib."

Aramis' eyes widened. "Oh no," he said. "Oh no, oh no, oh no…"

Porthos shrugged. "It's just a rib."

"It's never just a rib." Aramis pressed down on Porthos' shoulders. "Sit," he hissed. "I can't look at it like this."

Easier said than done. Porthos suppressed a groan as all his bones shifted and ground against each other when he eased himself down onto the bed.

"How dare you say, it's just a rib." Aramis slapped Porthos' hands away from the ties of his shirt. "You don't move unless I tell you to."

Before Porthos had quite realised what he was doing, Aramis had ripped his shirt straight down his chest.

"Watch it," he protested. "That was my best shirt! Barely even had any patches."

"Shut up," Aramis snapped. "Shut up and let me save your very best life. You won't get that at the tailor's."

"Come on, it's not—"

"Look at this!" His fingers ghosted over Porthos' body. "Look at this and tell me it's not serious."

"Goodness," Athos breathed. "Why didn't you say?"

Porthos looked down. Oh. Well… That did look worse than expected. His entire left side was swollen and bruised so badly it appeared black in the dim light. Ah well... "It's ribs," he said. "You always say there's nothing you can do, but take it easy for a few days…"

"How dare you…" Aramis' voice had dropped to a tight whisper that eventually caught in his throat and made him cough.

His fingers firmly traced Porthos' collarbone and then dipped lower. "This is going to hurt. But you'll be used to that by now."

He wasn't gentle. He placed his fingers either side of each rib and followed one after the other from breast to flank. The pain was bearable until he'd made his way half way down Porthos' chest. Then it burned white-hot. Porthos grunted through gritted teeth.

"Broken," Aramis hissed and repeated the movement, pressing down even harder and making spots dance in front of Porthos' eyes. "And you can thank the Lord that one's aligned and not sticking into your lung."

"Aramis, let him…"

Completely ignoring Athos, Aramis moved on to the next rib, making Porthos groan again.

"Broken as well. What's this? Now _you_ want to kill yourself? That it? Well, you should have said. Could have found someone to stick a knife into you. Much easier."

He snarled at Porthos. If he got any angrier, he'd probably be breathing fire.

"I'm sorry," Porthos said.

"What on earth were you thinking?"

"I thought it was bruises."

"Bruises! And some broken ribs that'll pierce your lung and kill you slowly and painfully, gasping for air."

"Is there any danger of that?" Athos asked.

"No." Aramis got up and stalked from one end of their tent to the other like a caged animal.

"Then what is your suggested treatment?"

Aramis gave their bags a vicious kick. "No point in binding them, is there?"

"Do you have a cream?" Porthos asked.

Aramis rounded on him. "Of course, I have a cream. And it would have done a lot more good if I'd applied it last night, you damn fool!"

He continued his pacing. Porthos looked at Athos who lifted an eyebrow at all the dramatics. At least Aramis was back to full health.

Aramis rooted through their pile of possessions, throwing bags, clothes, and even a saddle onto their bed, still muttering angrily.

"You're not to lie down like that," he hissed. "You'll sleep sitting up or by God, I'll tie you up so you can't move." He knelt down to build up a significant pile of things. "And you're in the middle again," he added, as if that settled things.

Athos hid a smile behind his hand, but Porthos remained serious. As silly as it seemed, it was serious to Aramis.

"What else should I do?" Porthos asked.

Aramis threw a spare bag across the tent where it landed with a clatter. "You take it easy for a while."

The evening was much tenser than Porthos would have liked. They should have been celebrating. Aramis was alive and well, aside from a slight but persistent cough. All three of them were still together. It should have been a good night. Instead Aramis was hovering, fretting over Athos' hands and Porthos' ribs.

When they settled down for the night, it took Porthos a few moments to find a comfortable position, but it wasn't the first time he'd slept propped up on a saddle. He'd definitely had worse. A few times he woke when pain shot through his body as he was trying to shift in his sleep, but he always fell asleep again quickly. An hour or more before dawn, he woke to feel Aramis' hand on his forehead.

"No fever," Aramis whispered. "No infection… not yet."

"Shhh." Porthos made to grab Aramis' hand, but moaned low in his throat when his body protested the movement.

"Are you…" Aramis' fingers dropped to his ribs, touch gentle this time.

"It hurts," Porthos admitted. "But I slept well."

Aramis slumped back onto the blankets. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"If I hadn't been so clumsy…"

"You were saving the king. There was nothing you could have done."

"I should have checked for injuries. Why didn't… I should have checked…"

"You were barely alive." Porthos blindly reached out with his left, moving as little as possible, resting his hand on whatever part of Aramis he could grab. "Are you cold?"

Aramis hesitated. "A little."

He always was. And with at least one of their blankets spread across the saddle and not him…

"Come here, then." Porthos made to drag him closer, only to hiss in pain. "You'll have to move yourself though."

"I'll hurt you."

"Nonsense."

When Athos woke, he looked at Porthos and across to where Aramis was curled up on his other side and smiled. Porthos returned his smile. After all the excitement of the previous days, it felt good to be back to normal.

Tréville heartily disagreed.

"What am I supposed to do with you lot?" he asked. "One unable to use his hands, the other barely even breathing. Is this a regiment or a sanatorium?"

"I'm fit for duty," Aramis said, bouncing on his feet with impatience after the previous day's enforced rest.

"You!" Tréville jabbed a finger against his breast. "You nearly died on me two days ago. It'll be a long time before I put you anywhere close to active duty again."

"But captain…"

"But what? Your clothes have barely dried and you want back on the battlements? I think not. You haven't even got a pauldron."

Porthos flinched even more than Aramis at that. Aramis' pauldron was currently on the bottom of the ocean because Porthos hadn't been able to save it. To save Aramis with it on. To save the parts of Aramis that were tied to it.

"Apologies," Tréville said gruffly. "But the point stands. You shall remain within our camp until we have resolved that situation."

That situation. Porthos thought back to the early days after Savoy, to Aramis' joy at touching his pauldron again. It was more than a piece of leather. To him that pauldron was full of memories of men that had left behind little else. Memories of friends and brothers. And Tréville knew that.

Despite all of their limitations, Tréville found plenty of work for them. Paperwork. It was no secret that Tréville despised the bureaucracy needed to run the regiment, but he was rarely cruel enough to dump it on anyone other than Athos.

Porthos didn't even try to understand what on earth they were supposed to be doing. Athos shuffled through the papers on Tréville's desk and while he was sorting them he had Aramis copy a list of supplies to be ordered from the quartermaster at the main camp. Aramis finished the letter, sealed it, and jumped to his feet.

"I'll deliver this," he said. "I'll be back in time for the next one."

"You are not to leave Aytré without a pauldron," Athos said.

"I'll go," Porthos said. They wouldn't exactly miss him while doing paperwork.

"You are not riding. Or walking for that matter." Aramis crossed his arms and stuck his chin out defiantly.

Athos rolled his eyes. "I shall go."

"You, my friend, shall stay," Aramis said, putting his hands on Athos' shoulders. "Porthos and I wouldn't know where to start with all this."

"So you will go, be mistaken for a Huguenot spy and shot on the spot?"

Aramis shrugged. "All I need is a pauldron. Porthos, you aren't exactly using yours, are you?"

Before Porthos had quite processed that question, Aramis' nimble fingers were undoing the straps and buckles that kept his pauldron in its rightful place.

"You can't take that," he protested.

"You heard the captain. I'm not allowed to go out without a pauldron. And you don't need one to sit in this tent. Works out perfectly."

Porthos didn't feel he could complain too much, even though it felt like Aramis was removing a part of him. But it was good to see Aramis back on his feet. And it was his fault that Aramis didn't have a pauldron, after all. If this was to be his only punishment, he could count himself lucky. He helped Aramis fasten the buckles.

"That's as tight as it'll go," he said apologetically.

Aramis frowned. "Why do you have the shoulders of an ox?"

"I could punch more holes in the straps…"

"You will do no such thing." Aramis huffed.

"We have work to do," Athos said, looking up from the letter he was reading. "You look ridiculous. Like you borrowed it from your big brother."

Aramis grinned. "Guess I did."

With that, he sauntered out of the tent.

For a while, they sat in silence. Eventually, Porthos cleared his throat.

"What can I do?"

Athos continued to read, but gestured towards a book that sat on the table. "Captain Tréville is likely to be behind with his diary. He records all movements and events the regiment encounters."

Porthos wiped his hands on his sleeves before reaching for the book. He carefully turned its pages.

"The last entry was two weeks ago."

"Before the incident with Bisset then," Athos said. "That should give you plenty to write about. And Aramis, of course. Injuries are to be recorded."

"Give _me_ plenty to write about?"

Athos held out his bandaged hands. "I'm of little use with the quill these days."

Porthos swallowed heavily. "But I…"

Athos cocked an eyebrow. "I know you can write."

"I can… little things but not… not like that…"

"This hardly requires a poet. If you find any poetry in this, you can ask Aramis what he'd done to deserve to be banished to Captain Tréville's desk."

"But how do I… I don't even know where to start."

"With the date on the top right is the customary way."

Porthos dipped the quill into the inkwell and painstakingly wrote the date. He bit down on the tip of his tongue to keep himself focussed. This was serious work. He breathed a sigh of relief when he could finally put the quill down and hadn't left a single unwanted drop of ink on the page.

Athos nodded to him. "Musketeer Bisset sprained an ankle and dislocated his shoulder after his horse slipped on the way to Fort de Tadon. Urgently requested engineers to improve drainage of that road."

Porthos stared at him. He would never have known how to say all that in so few words. Tréville had been in a right rage about it, cursing the endless mud and the uselessness of the building crews. And Athos put it all so nicely. Whatever he said, to Porthos that was poetry. He hurried to commit it to paper, only struggling with the word "drainage", but Athos patiently spelled it out for him. They continued like that for most of the day.

Every time Aramis came in, drenched by the rain, but grinning from ear to ear, he made Porthos get up and walk around for a bit. Apparently sitting still for too long wasn't good for his ribs. Same as moving around or lying down or standing up. Nothing was good for his ribs. They certainly hurt, there was no way around that, but now that he knew that there wasn't anything really wrong with him, Porthos found it easy enough to ignore the pain.

That didn't keep Aramis from decreeing that they were to have their evening meal in their tent again. Porthos needed to rest, he said. The only parts of Porthos that really needed a rest were his eyes and his hand and potentially his buttocks after all that sitting down. He found it hard to believe, but chairs could get as uncomfortable as saddles after a while.

Back in their tent, Aramis stripped bare. Porthos took the opportunity to look him up and down and sighed in relief when he found only a few bruises marring his smooth skin. It had once again rained all day and Aramis was soaked to the bone. He hung up his wet clothes and changed into dry ones, wrapping himself into a blanket for good measure. Porthos shook his head when Aramis coughed again.

"You shouldn't have done that. You're all wet again. It's bad for you."

Aramis scoffed. "It's called rain," he said. "It's not the sort of water that kills you, you know."

Porthos reached for another blanket to throw at him. "You're cold."

"When am I not cold?" Aramis asked peevishly. "And you stop moving around so much. That's _really_ bad for you."

He was cold though, really cold. When they finally went to bed, they could hear his teeth chatter.

After a while, Athos sat up. "Let's change sides."

"What?"

"Considering our distinct lack of a fireplace, you need to get closer to Porthos. And you are unlikely to do that on his left."

"I'm fine."

"You're freezing. And if you are to catch your death, I dare say you would prefer a more heroic manner."

Porthos nudged Aramis gently. "He's right," he said. "Come over here where I can hold you."

"I don't need—"

"I know, but I need to know you're well."

"I _am_ well."

Athos sighed. "You keep us up all night with your teeth clanking like horseshoes, and _we_ are not going to be well come morning. And Porthos at the very least should rest."

That settled it. There was some shuffling and stumbling in the dark, but eventually they lay down around Porthos again, Aramis now curled up close to his body and Athos keeping his distance on the injured side.

"Be careful with his ribs," Aramis said.

"You have my word for it," Athos replied.

"But if you touch them…"

"I'll kick him for it," Porthos said. "Now stop your fretting and focus on getting warm. I'll be fine."


	15. Pneumonia (2 of 4)

**Pneumonia (2/4)**

"Come on, hurry up," Aramis said, jogging back towards them. "The milk will be cold and the food'll be gone by the time you make it to breakfast."

"What's the rush?" Porthos grunted, trying to snuggle deeper into his cloak without actually moving too much.

"Usually the rush is you needing your breakfast," Aramis said. He laughed, walking backwards to look at them. "But you seem to be slowing down in your old age, granddad."

Porthos tried to catch him and whack the hat off his smug face, but Aramis easily evaded him, laughing even harder. Porthos wanted to say something to shut him up, but as usual he couldn't find the right words. Nor did he really have the breath for it. He was huffing and puffing like an elderly draught horse and he'd barely done more than climb out of bed.

"Sore after your day of writing?" Aramis asked. "Maybe your buttocks need a good smack to loosen them."

"I'll smack you," Porthos said, the rest of his sentence lost when a misstep disturbed his broken ribs and made him wince.

"Maybe not everyone has the temperament of an over-excited rooster in the mornings," Athos said from behind the upturned collar of his cloak. "Would you please pipe down and slow down? At the very least until I've had my breakfast."

Far from shutting Aramis up, that comment led right into an argument about the proper time to get up and whether or not there were indeed different kinds of people who functioned better at certain times of the day. It all got very heated when Aramis said not rising with the sun and going straight to work was a privilege of the pampered nobility. After all, God wouldn't have put the sun in the sky if he didn't want people to rise. Mixing religion and criticism of the nobility was never a good thing around Athos.

Porthos decided not to get involved. Instead he stared into his gruel, trying to ignore his friends' bickering and the pain in his ribs. He ate a few spoonfuls, but found he didn't really fancy it. Not that there was ever much to fancy about gruel. They couldn't complain about the rations though, three warm meals a day and all that. Still, Porthos preferred the summer and autumn when there was fresh fruit to go with breakfast. He wasn't hungry for these bland, colourless slops. Maybe it was all that sitting down from the previous day. Maybe you didn't have much of an appetite when you didn't move at all.

He got to put that theory to the test straight away. Apparently, Tréville had been delighted with his writing and found some more for him to do, so more sitting was on the agenda. At least Athos had been cheered up by the food and the argument, and they passed a fairly pleasant morning.

Porthos decided he must have slept poorly. He felt like he'd been in battle the day before and was so tired his eyes would barely stay open. It was much harder to focus on his letters than it had been and he had to ask Athos to spell out quite a few words for him. His mind didn't want to cooperate. He even left a few splotches of ink on the page, which annoyed him greatly. The captain would not be pleased.

They didn't have to go far to get their lunch, but to Porthos it felt like they were walking all the way back to Paris. When they couldn't find somewhere to sit down at first, Porthos wanted nothing more than to sink onto the muddy ground, forget about his soup, and sleep.

Something wasn't right, but he didn't want to complain. Aramis had checked and told him nothing was seriously wrong. And Aramis knew about those things. But there was also that thing Aramis had said about broken ribs sticking into a lung and killing you. That didn't sound like a pleasant way to go.

Porthos sat down heavily and needed a moment to catch his breath. Aramis was telling a new tale about Madame Couture. She had apparently redoubled her efforts with him now that he was the king's saviour and pretty much risen from the dead. The men around the long table guffawed. They had strict orders to keep their hands off the women in the village and few of them had the coin to spare to seek out the professionals. Aramis' valiant struggles against the widow's advances were entertainment for them all.

Porthos tried to eat his soup, but it was difficult. Breathing had become so hard. It was near impossible to stop breathing long enough to actually swallow. Eventually, soup met air, and he couldn't suppress a cough. His hands flew to the front of his doublet, trying to hold on to the parts of his chest that felt like they were flying apart.

Silence fell around the table. He knew everyone was watching, but Porthos couldn't suppress a pitiful moan.

"Oh no," Aramis said, rubbing slow circles on his back. "That must have hurt. That's what you get for being greedy. Shh, now, calm your breathing…"

Porthos tried and failed miserably.

"Is that… normal?" he wheezed.

"Of course," Aramis said. "Coughing disturbs your ribs. Of course, that hurts."

"No, that you…" Porthos gasped for air. "With broken ribs… that you can't breathe right."

The way in which Aramis' face fell told him that it was far from normal.

"Let me see," came the clipped reply.

Before Porthos could even protest, Aramis had him stripped down to his shirtsleeves. The others gawped. Porthos tried to focus on Aramis' cold fingertips tracing his ribs rather than on their stares. That could have waited until they were back in their tent, but he knew if he protested now, Aramis would make an even bigger scene of it.

"Breathe as deeply as you can."

Porthos did, but immediately had to cough again. Aramis pressed his hands gently onto his broken ribs, keeping him from falling to pieces. Porthos squeezed his eyes shut to try and blink away the tears. When he opened them again, Aramis' brows were drawn together, his forehead wrinkled.

"The ribs are still aligned," Aramis said. "Nothing shifted. Nothing is in your lung."

Porthos nodded. "Alright then. Sorry. Thought I'd ask."

Aramis bit his lower lip. "I'm glad you did."

His voice didn't fit his positive diagnosis. Porthos was sorry he'd worried him for nothing and all in front of everyone else. He made to get dressed properly again, but Aramis stopped him.

"No, wait… let me."

He did up the ties very loosely. "I can't work like that," Porthos said.

"You won't. Back to our tent. Now. I need to…"

"What is it?" Athos asked softly, hovering over Porthos' shoulder.

"I don't know, I need to see if…" Aramis took in a deep breath and released it audibly.

"What do you suspect?"

Aramis shook his head. "Pray to heaven that I'm wrong. An illness…"

Porthos huffed and regretted that instantly. "You said my ribs are fine. They'll heal. So there, all good. I don't have some goddamn illness."

He wasn't weak like that. Injuries were fine. Injuries were part of being a musketeer. But he wasn't some babe in arms who'd come down with an illness.

Aramis helped him up like he was suddenly an old man. Everyone stared, wide-eyed like they were witnessing something terrible. Two of Serge's boys were gossiping over the big pot of soup, eyes fixed on Porthos. Like they all expected him to keel over at any moment. Like they knew something he didn't.

"Careful," Aramis said. "Don't walk too fast. Don't exhaust yourself."

"This morning you wanted me to hurry up."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise…" Aramis looked away and bit down on his lip again.

"Realise what?" Athos asked. "Tell us what you think."

Aramis shook his head. "I don't want to speculate. Let me make sure."

Athos nodded. "I appreciate your candour."

Porthos stopped to catch his breath. Both of them looked at him with great concern.

"Can you stop acting like I'm half dead?" Porthos snapped.

Aramis smiled at him, but it didn't reach his eyes. "If the Lord's willing, we will in a minute. Humour me, please."

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Course I will."

He certainly wouldn't mind a little lie down. Walking was hard work again. He wasn't feeling right at all. It had to be his ribs. Aramis would see. His ribs and nothing bad. Maybe the bruises had swollen and were stealing his breath. Something like that.

Aramis seemed to suspect something similar. He was ridiculously careful when he helped Porthos sit down on their bed and get rid of his cloak and doublet.

"I need to take your shirt off," he said.

"Don't rip it," Porthos said. "You rip that one and I'll have to wear yours."

Usually, Aramis would have replied something about his shirts bursting at the seams if Porthos so much as stuck one arm into them, but he didn't say a word, as he helped Porthos undress without ripping a single stitch.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked, running a hand down his arm.

Porthos smiled. "Not as bad as you seem to think."

Aramis glared at him. "Be honest, please."

"I'm tired. Didn't sleep well, I guess."

Athos shook his head. "You always sleep well."

"When I actually do something and don't sit 'round all day."

"What else?" Aramis asked.

"I can't breathe right. Walking… everything feels like a fight."

Aramis brushed his fingers through Porthos' hair, then put his hand flat onto his forehead. He frowned before moving his hand lower to feel Porthos' pulse. Porthos tensed.

"Alright?" Aramis asked.

"Your hands are freezing."

"Sorry. Try to breathe normally."

Of course as soon as he said that, Porthos had to cough. He moaned wretchedly now that they were away from the others. It had to be some special torture where they broke your bones first and then made you cough. Being stabbed felt nicer than this.

Once he was done, Aramis' now slightly warmer fingers returned to his throat. They sat in silence to let Aramis do his thing. Porthos wondered what he hoped to feel there. His heart beat fine. He hadn't even lost any blood. No matter how dramatic their little swim had been for Aramis, Porthos didn't have a single scratch. But judging by the look on Aramis' face he might as well have been bleeding out.

"Maybe a little fast," Aramis said eventually. "But nothing bad."

Porthos smiled up at him. "Told you so."

"Your cough though… and the tiredness."

"It's not that bad."

"It is. You haven't been yourself all day," Athos said. Porthos glared at him.

"What?" Athos shrugged. "I know your spelling is better than that."

"I'm tired, nothing else."

"Could he have caught a cold?" Athos asked. "The sudden immersion in cold water, the ride back…"

"Hmm." Aramis sounded unconvinced. "Maybe. I'll check the lungs. We'll see."

His hands moved to Porthos' shoulders, squeezing lightly before he crawled over to kneel behind Porthos. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll be gentle."

"What are you doing?" Porthos tried to look over his shoulder, which wasn't easy without moving his ribs. Funny how much you actually needed your ribs and how easily you forgot about that when you hadn't cracked one.

"I need to check if air is getting into your lungs. I'll tap your back and then I can hear it."

"Hear my lungs?"

"There's a different sound when there's air. A bit like a drum."

"I'm not a drum," Porthos protested.

Aramis patted his shoulder. "Deep breath in and then hold it."

Porthos grumbled a little, but did as he was told. Aramis started tapping his back with his fingertips. It was a very odd sensation. And odder still…

"That was the wrong side," Porthos said once Aramis had stopped. "Left side is hurt."

"I want to hear what's normal first," Aramis said. "Deep breath again."

That was probably a lie. He'd mixed up his sides, for sure. But Aramis always had an excuse for anything he did wrong. Drove Tréville and Athos up the walls. Porthos indulged him as long as it wasn't anything important.

The tapping started again and on the correct side it was extremely uncomfortable. The touches were light, but it felt like Aramis was digging his fingers right into the bruises. When he was done, Porthos hissed out the breath between his teeth. That hurt as well, obviously. Everything hurt. He leaned into Aramis' touch on his shoulder.

"I need to listen to your breath," Aramis said. His voice was too clipped, too sharp for it to be good news. "Breathe normally."

Immediately, Porthos couldn't remember how to breathe. This was getting old very quickly. It didn't help that Aramis was kneeling next to him now, pressing his ear to his chest. Nobody could be expected to be all calm and collected with that.

It took forever. Porthos looked down at Aramis' head, his soft wavy hair with the little curls around the nape of the neck. Beautiful Aramis, who only a few days ago had been… The moment when Aramis fell flashed in Porthos' mind. The moment when Aramis had realised he was going over and that he wasn't going to survive… The moment when Porthos had known he wasn't going to let that happen.

Aramis sat back on his haunches and brushed a hand over his beard.

"What is it?" Athos asked. Porthos blushed, suddenly aware that Athos had seen him with Aramis' face basically pressed into his crotch

Porthos knew it was bad when Aramis looked at Athos, not him, when he replied.

"He can't breathe because his lung his filled with phlegm."

"Pneumonia?" Athos asked. He truly knew everything.

"Yes." Aramis finally turned to Porthos. "An inflammation of the lung. It fills with phlegm and hardens. It's… it's very hard on the body."

Porthos nodded. He could do hard. He didn't mind. "I can handle that."

Aramis bit down hard on his lower lip. Porthos wanted to say something to reassure him. He'd be fine. If he was anything, he was strong. Aramis would see. He'd be fine.

"Right," Athos said. "What do you need to treat it?"

Aramis stared into space. "I don't know."

Porthos blinked in disbelief. Aramis never said that. Aramis always knew something, and if he didn't, he made something up.

"You must have a plan," Athos pressed. "Whatever you need, I assure you I can procure it."

He was right, of course. Athos could do impossible things if he put his mind to it.

"And what if I don't?" Aramis snapped. "This isn't a dislocated joint or a cut I can stitch. I don't know."

"You detected a fever, right? Surely you have ways to bring that down."

"Of course I do. But should I? Or is the fever what's needed to burn away the phlegm? Don't speak of things you don't understand, Athos!"

Porthos looked from one to the other, surprised at Aramis' tone and confused by his lack of ideas. Athos was poised for a sharp reply but pulled himself back with an effort.

"I see I'm not needed here," he said. "I shall go and inform Captain Tréville."

"Don't."

Both of them stared at Porthos.

"I do think he would rather like to know," Athos said.

"No, I'll be fine. It's nothing but an illness."

"I don't think you understand," Aramis said

"You don't understand!" Porthos was panting, trying to get enough air, trying not to cough. "I can sit. I can write. He doesn't need to know."

"You'll do no such thing," Aramis said.

"And Captain Tréville really does need to know and I assure you, he would want to know as well," Athos added.

"Why?" Porthos asked. "So he can kick me out?"

He hated that his voice cracked on that question. Weakness. Around them were the clatter and voices and steps, the usual sounds of the camp. Inside, the silence fell like a heavy blanket of snow.

"After that wound." Athos indicated the back of his leg. "I couldn't even sit for two weeks. And still, Captain Tréville kept me."

Porthos shook his head. "That was an injury."

And that was different. Injuries were musketeering. Illness was weakness. And musketeers couldn't be weak.

"What about me after Savoy?" Aramis asked. "I was useless for months. And Tréville kept me."

Porthos didn't look at him. He didn't want to think about that. Aramis was doing well. He was so far from that little bundle of a man huddled under his blankets. He was so good, so far from useless.

"That wasn't an injury," Aramis said.

"It was different," Porthos murmured. "It was you. You were the only one. And you were… you. Sniper, medic… everything…"

"And you are you. Wrestler, street-smart…"

"It's not like that."

"Friend," Athos added.

"And the absolute idiot who dives into the sea even though he can't swim."

"Thank you," Porthos said, smiling sadly. "But that's you. Tréville…"

Aramis protested, said Tréville liked him and valued his skills. That he was a great musketeer. But really, if he'd been honest he'd have said that all musketeers were great and Porthos wasn't anything special. There were thousands of soldiers all around. Better men, healthier men, more deserving of a place in the regiment. Aramis didn't agree.

Athos shook his head and took his hat. "Wait and see what happens when I tell him."

What happened first was that Aramis got a young boy to run and fetch Porthos' lunch for him. Not that Porthos was hungry, but Aramis pressured him to eat, telling him it was necessary even though Porthos felt he was choking every time he swallowed and was constantly worried he'd have to cough again.

In the end worrying didn't help and he did have to cough and it hurt. He didn't want it to hurt. He didn't want Aramis to worry and he didn't want to complain and be weak. He wasn't weak. It wasn't like that. It wasn't as bad as Aramis thought. He'd be fine.

"Come on," Aramis said. "You have to eat."

"I thought you didn't know what you have to do with this," Porthos grumbled. He wasn't hungry and he didn't want to cough even more.

"I don't." Aramis looked so dejected that Porthos regretted his comment immediately. "But it can't hurt to keep your strength up, can it?"

Porthos had to eat then, coughing be damned. He couldn't stand to see Aramis so sad. Fortunately, they weren't alone for long and he didn't have to eat much. Athos stepped back into the tent, followed by Tréville. The captain's boots splashed into the puddle that always formed by the entrance. He looked furious.

Porthos tried his best to sit up straighter and look healthier, but Tréville glared at him. As he should. This wasn't what Porthos wanted, not at all.

"I'm not having this." Tréville shook his head and turned on his heel. "This is not worthy of my musketeers."

He stormed out of the tent still ranting and shouted at somebody outside. They stared at each other. Porthos could tell that this wasn't what Athos had thought he would get to see.

Not worthy of the musketeers.

Porthos had known it would happen, but it still stung. He wanted to be worthy. What was he if he wasn't a musketeer? Now he really felt as sick as Aramis thought he was and it had nothing to do with his ribs or some inflammation. At least Aramis didn't pester him with the soup anymore. Porthos was sure he would have thrown it right back up. His stomach felt like he had eaten rocks.

Nobody spoke. Porthos wondered how they would cope, then chided himself for the thought. They'd be fine, of course. They were both capable musketeers. They would have each other. He'd served his purpose for a while, had done what he could. They'd be fine. And he… He'd go on somehow, always had. Though it would be harder now, after knowing this, knowing them. After being a musketeer, after being friends with such men — what could ever compare?

It didn't matter, really. He'd curl up somewhere, hunker down and see out this fever or whatever it was. And then… There were so many regiments all around, he'd find someone who'd take him. He wasn't bad, he knew that. But too weak to be a musketeer, too ill. He smiled a little. He could even be the stablehand now, thanks to Aramis. He'd be fine, always was.

They sat next to him and said nothing.

"Don't you have work to do?" Porthos asked. He'd rather not have them around when Tréville returned to kick him out properly. He'd like them to remember him when he was still worthy.

They glared at him.

"We're staying with you," Aramis said.

So they stayed and sat and said nothing. Porthos didn't know what to say. He should probably be saying his goodbyes, telling them he'd always remember them and to look after themselves. But he felt like saying it would make it real. He wanted to enjoy those last few minutes of being a musketeer. Those minutes stretched into more than an hour before the captain reappeared. He barely even stepped foot into the tent.

"You are moving, all of you," he said. "I've organised a room at the castle."

"A room?" Athos asked.

"I'm not having him in a leaking tent, not in this condition." Tréville turned to Porthos. "I'm sorry. I should have done this after the incident on the sea wall."

Porthos shook his head. "You don't have to do that. We'll be fine here and there isn't enough room."

The castle was small. Not much of a castle. They only called it that because it was the largest house around. The rooms were quickly filled with the king, his advisors and visitors, and the necessary servants. There wasn't space for soldiers, not even musketeers. And it wasn't bad. Their tents were large and the paths in the camp were covered with planks, keeping their feet out of the mud.

Nobody heeded Porthos' protest. Several other musketeers arrived to carry their things, bags, saddles, clothes and all. Porthos' head swam with the sudden buzz of activity. He hadn't expected that. When Athos and Aramis helped him up, the blood rushed to his feet and he stumbled. Athos reached out to steady him.

"Lean on me," he said quietly.

Porthos didn't want to but he had to admit he felt safer having his friend close by. He was sweating before they were anywhere close to the castle. Every step was hard work. They had to stop several times so he could catch his breath. Tréville was watching closely, shaking his head and scratching his beard. Porthos wanted him to look away, to not see how weak he really was. Weak and not like a musketeer at all. He wasn't worthy, but the captain still did all this for him…

"You don't have to do this," Porthos gasped when they reached the back entrance of the castle.

"Nonsense," Tréville said. "You are a king's musketeer. You deserve a room."

"But somebody…" Another coughing fit interrupted Porthos. It left him feeling shaken, leaning heavily onto Athos.

"Somebody was moved into alternative accommodation. You are not to concern yourself with those arrangements," Tréville said sternly. "It's your room now. For the duration."

Porthos didn't have the energy to protest any more. He was thankful when Athos and Aramis lowered him to the bed in their new room. He sat there for some minutes, bracing himself on his knees, trying to control his breathing. It hadn't been much of a walk, but he felt exhausted, like he had run for hours. He kept his head bowed while he could hear others scurry around, putting their things where Athos and Aramis told them to. Finally, the door closed behind the last of them.

"How are you feeling, son?" Tréville put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm fine, captain," Porthos said.

"How is he really, Aramis?"

"Feverish, fatigued, and his lung is inflamed. Pneumonia, I suspect."

Porthos glared at him. He didn't have to embarrass him in front of the captain.

Tréville nodded. "I see. What do you suggest?"

Porthos almost smirked watching Aramis wring his hands at that.

"I don't know," Aramis said. "This is beyond my skill."

Tréville looked at him intently. Porthos felt like there was a whole separate conversation between those two happening in silence. Judging by the way Athos' eyes flitted from one to the other, he wasn't alone.

"Do you want me to find me a physician?" Tréville asked.

"Yes."

The response came so fast, it took Porthos by surprise. He'd expected Aramis to dither, to deflect. Aramis liked to take care of them and he was good at it. He'd been so happy when his hands finally worked well enough to do stitches again. The few times they'd had a doctor at the garrison since, Aramis had watched his every movement like a hawk and ranted about his incompetence afterwards.

"I'll let you settle in while I get one," Tréville said. "I shouldn't be long."

Settling in meant fussing over Porthos. There were more pillows than Porthos had ever seen in one place and Aramis insisted that they all needed to go behind his back. Somehow even the dreaded soup made a reappearance. While Aramis forced Porthos to take a few more sips, Athos organised their belongings along the back wall of the room and set out his and Aramis' bed roll. Porthos didn't feel comfortable lording it over them on the bed, but suspected he didn't have much of a say in their sleeping arrangements. When Aramis was taking care of someone, it was best not to interfere. And for once that was a bit of a relief. At least it meant he didn't have to refuse the bed.

Tréville returned with a frail-looking old man with not a hair on his head but an impressive white beard.

"Gentlemen," Tréville said. "May I introduce Jean Héroard, the king's personal physician. His majesty is very concerned and sends his sincere wishes for a speedy recovery."

For his majesty's wellbeing, Porthos honestly hoped that his physician was somewhat nicer to him. He never spoke to Porthos directly, preferring to utter vague commands like _'undress the patient'_ to the room at large.

He did much the same as Aramis before, pushing and prodding and feeling Porthos' pulse. Unlike Aramis, he wasn't gentle about it, caring very little about bruises and broken ribs. Knotty knuckles beat his back like a marching drum, but Porthos wasn't going to show any weakness in front of a stranger. He couldn't suppress the cough, but he gritted his teeth until the pain had passed and he could sink back into his pillows.

"Pneumonia," the doctor declared. "He is of a strong constitution and by the grace of God, he may be delivered from this disease."

"Thank you, Monsieur Héroard," Tréville said. "What can we do to ensure his recovery?"

The doctor looked at him sharply. "That is in the hands of God, and God alone."

"There must be some remedies," Tréville said. "A learned man like you…"

"I have studied the human body and spirit extensively, it is true. Modern medicine has made many formidable discoveries and the Lord has aided our understanding of many common maladies."

"I appreciate your expertise and experience very much," Aramis said. "What do you prescribe for Porthos?"

The physician blinked at him with his small, watery eyes. "You are the medic? And what, pray, have you done so far?"

"I wasn't sure if it was wise to attempt to lower the fever…"

Héroard waved him off. "The field medic ordinarily shows little more of an understanding for the inner workings of the mortal body than the common butcher."

Porthos frowned. That wasn't very kind. Athos raised an eyebrow and Tréville visibly stiffened, but Aramis remained calm.

"I know the limitations of my skill and have not dared to do much. I have made him eat so he would be able to keep up his strength."

"A dangerous misconception. All you are doing is feeding the disease," the doctor said. "This, then, is my prescription for this unfortunate man. That he should take no food until he is fully recovered. The disease must be starved out rather than permitted to ravage his body further."

"What about the fever?" Aramis asked.

"It should be encouraged and allowed to burn. Given the cold water in the lungs, it provides the perfect counter point to restore the vital balance of the humours. Keep the patient warm and comfortable. I trust you know how to do that."

Aramis bowed his head. "Thank you for your advice. I shall do so."

Athos made a face like somebody had kicked him in the shins. "Forgive me," he said, not sounding the least bit like he was asking for forgiveness. "But will a sustained fever not weaken him considerably, thus delaying recovery?"

The physician glared at him, but Athos met his eyes steadily.

"You have not studied the ancient masters, Hippocrates of Kos or the great Galen of Pergamon?"

"I have not." Athos didn't even blink. "Therefore, I require your explanation."

Héroard cleared his throat. "Illness stems from the imbalance of the humours. Only when all four are in perfect harmony can a man be healthy."

Athos nodded his understanding. "Continue."

"The humours possess different qualities. In this case we encounter phlegm, the cold and wet humour associated with the element of water. An excess of this, causing the congestion in the lungs, is opposed by the hot, dry element of fire, expressed in the fever." The old man put his hands together as if in prayer, looking serene and utterly confident in his sermon. Porthos hadn't understood much of it, but it sounded very smart and convincing.

Athos wasn't satisfied. "How will this opposition manifest in Porthos' recovery?"

Héroard blinked his eyes rapidly, as if he wasn't sure he was really being questioned like that. "The phlegm is evident in the current apathetic state of the patient."

Porthos' eyebrows shot up. That didn't sound like a nice state to be in.

"With the rising fever, the patient will become more animated. An excess of yellow bile, the humour associated with fire, will result in aggression, as is sometimes seen in the dreams of the fevered."

Porthos frowned. He wasn't aggressive and he wouldn't let any humour, unbalanced or otherwise, make him so.

"I see," Athos said, though he didn't sound like he did.

Héroard was wringing his hands. "Only if a balance can be achieved, will he recover. If…"

Athos stopped him with a gesture. "You have made yourself understood, physician."

If there was any protest after that, Porthos didn't hear it. He was coughing once again. But he didn't think the doctor would complain about Athos' tone. Somehow people never did.

Aramis crouched down next to Porthos and helped him press a pillow—how were there more pillows?—against his aching chest. With the pillow it felt a little less like pieces of him were flying in all directions, but it didn't lessen the pain or the horrible feeling of gasping for air and not getting any. Porthos couldn't fight it. His body wanted to cough and cough and cough. When the urge finally disappeared, he was exhausted.

Athos handed him a cup of water. Porthos nodded his thanks and tried to take small sips. The cold water soothed his throat. He swirled it around in his mouth, enjoying the moment of calm and the lack of any sharp pain.

Aramis turned away from him. "What was that all about?"

Athos cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"Interrogating the doctor."

Athos shrugged. "I had questions and needed answers."

Well, he'd certainly gotten those.

Aramis groaned and threw his hands in the air. "From the king's personal physician?"

"Who better?"

Aramis jumped to his feet and rounded on Athos, getting right into his face. "We can't afford to anger him," he hissed. "Porthos' life is in his hands."

Athos stared back, not ruffled in the slightest. "God's hands and yours I'll accept in this. Anyone else has to explain himself."

"And did he? Are you satisfied?"

"Not entirely."

"What do you want?" Aramis stomped his feet. "He knows all about it, he told you everything."

"He didn't actually say very much."

Aramis snarled at him, ready for a vicious response.

"He's gone now," Porthos said, eager to keep the peace. "Please… It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Athos said. "Because I don't think he actually understands."

"But you do?"

"No."

"So could you please stop and trust the one expert we've got?" Aramis asked. "Cause I don't know any better either."

Oh. That… well… Porthos wasn't sure how to feel about that. Aramis always knew. He'd learned about salves and teas from his mother and about herbs and humours or whatever they were called from some old monk and he knew how to stitch wounds and set bones and… everything. As far as Porthos was concerned, Aramis knew everything there was to know about medicine.

Aramis and Athos both took a deep breath, still glaring at each other.

"Fine," Athos said eventually. "We'll call it a truce. For now."


	16. Pneumonia (3 of 4)

**Pneumonia (3/4)**

Three days later, it wasn't just breathing that hurt, it was existing. Porthos had been ill before, plenty of times. He'd been injured and tortured, but he'd never felt like that. For the first time in his life, he thought he had an inkling of what it must be like for Aramis and Athos when one of their black moods overtook them and living became too much.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. He'd taken up nursing duties, sitting with Porthos every day. Athos was with the regiment, but came back to their room as early as possible so Aramis could get some sleep. Whenever Porthos woke, one of them was by his side.

Porthos smiled up at Aramis. "Thank you."

"That's not an answer." Aramis dipped the cloth into fresh water and washed Porthos' arms and neck. The cool water felt good. He'd be cold again soon enough, but for the moment he was sweating.

"Better now," Porthos said. He let his head sink back into the pillows. He was always tired.

"The doctor will be here any moment," Aramis said. He sounded worried. With an effort, Porthos opened his eyes again and tried another smile.

"It's fine."

Aramis fiddled with the corner of a blanket, not looking at him. "It will be," he said.

Porthos must have fallen asleep because next thing he knew, the old man was prodding his bare chest. And then he was sitting up, leaning against Aramis' shoulder. It was cold. He knew it was the fever and he knew it had to burn, but he was so cold. And then there was pain and he was coughing and more pain and Porthos was whining and there was so much pain and somewhere, somewhere Aramis' voice.

"Breathe, Porthos."

And he wanted to, but there was no room, no space for air in his body.

"Porthos, please."

And yes, yes, of course, for Aramis, but he couldn't get air.

"Lie him down."

"Breathe."

Yes, breathing. But it was hard. Such hard work.

"You can do it."

He could do anything. He never shied away from work. He could work hard, he could breathe. They were talking, but he didn't hear. He was breathing. He was breathing and he found that he could, that there was space. His lungs weren't fine, but he could breathe. But it was hard work. It was like back when they were kids and everything was a battle. The constant hunger, the constant fear… It had been easier for a while, with the musketeers. And now it was back and it was hard, but he could do hard things. Not the smartest, not the prettiest, because there were always Athos and Flea and Charon and Aramis, but he was Porthos and he could work.

"You will not do that to him!" Aramis' sharp voice cut through the memories.

"It would be very beneficial—"

"I don't care."

"It would help him regain his strength."

That sounded good. Porthos forced his eyes open. "I want that," he rasped.

Aramis frowned. "No."

"I want…"

"Don't."

"Please."

"He wants to bleed you, Porthos."

Ah. Yes. Bleeding. Of course they would bleed him. Bleeding was good. Everybody knew that, but Porthos had forgotten all about bleeding.

"Good."

Aramis shook his head. "I don't think so. You're too weak."

Exactly. And that's why he needed the bleeding. The doctor said he'd get his strength back. It would be good.

"Do it."

Aramis bit his lip.

"It is the treatment I would advise for the King if, heaven forfend, His Majesty should be similarly afflicted," the doctor said.

Porthos didn't look at him. The brief discussion had tired him out even more. He needed this. He trusted Aramis to understand.

"Fine," Aramis said, though he didn't sound like he believed it. "Then do it for the king's musketeer."

All of a sudden Aramis was calm. The deadly calm before he made an impossible shot. Porthos knew it well. Nobody said another word. Few people did when Aramis was in that mood.

Aramis grabbed his hand and something was tied tightly around Porthos' upper arm.

"Lie still."

Porthos hadn't had any plans to go dancing and he wanted to tell Aramis that, but then there was a sharp pain in his arm and Aramis squeezed his hand.

"Lie still, be good."

Porthos looked down then and underneath the doctor's bent head he could see himself bleed from a deep cut right in the crook of his arm.

"It's alright," Aramis said. "Just a little bit."

But he was frowning and biting his lip. He was always so careful.

"It's enough now," he said. "Surely, that's enough."

"Not yet," the doctor said. "We must relieve him from this pestilence."

Porthos felt relieved. As he watched his blood trickle into a small bowl, everything got easier. He was feeling lighter and calmer and breathing wasn't a chore any more. It was good. They always said that bleeding could cure anything. Porthos wondered why they hadn't done it before.

"Stop this madness," Aramis said and leaned forward as if to push the doctor away.

"No, let him," Porthos said. "It feels good."

Aramis scowled at him, but then nodded. "As long as you're alright."

"He will be greatly improved," the doctor said. "Blood-letting is a remedy, which, when judiciously employed by a qualified man, can hardly be overstated in its efficacy."

He said other things as well, but Porthos didn't listen. He felt good. For the first time since all of this began, he felt light and happy and free. Breathing was easier and the pain was bearable.

That night, when Athos had returned, Porthos was glad that the doctor had told him he was better, because he really couldn't tell himself. He had slept through most of the afternoon and he was still tired. But the doctor had said he was greatly improved and he would know best. He was the king's physician after all.

Porthos wasn't sure how much time had passed. It was difficult to tell since he wasn't allowed food. Not that he really wanted it, but meals had a nice way of breaking up the day. Without them, everything became the same, an endless cycle of coughing and pain and sleeping. Sometimes there was Aramis' voice, or Athos'. Sometimes they gave him water or wiped his face. Sometimes it was light and sometimes it was dark. Sometimes he was hungry, but mostly he was tired. One time, Tréville was there and there was a great deal of talking. They didn't sound happy and Porthos wanted to stay awake and listen, but he wasn't able to open his eyes. He could do hard things, he really could, but for the moment, lying there was hard enough.

Then the doctor was back, but he didn't make him sit up this time, which was good because Porthos didn't think he could have done that, no matter how hard he tried. He felt like he was back in the water, the weight dragging him down until every movement became impossible. Down and down and further down and everything was so heavy.

"Do something," Aramis said. "You've got to help."

There was more prodding, then the doctor's voice. "Only God can help this unfortunate man."

"But aren't we the tools of God's might? Aren't we the ones to carry out his will, to aid his plan in the battlefield and at the sickbed? You are blessed with the learning and the skills to do God's work. You have been placed here for a reason. Monsieur, I pray you, do your part."

Porthos would have chuckled if he'd been able. But even if he found the strength… it would only trigger another cough and he had quite enough of those. It was funny, though. Aramis using religion to get what he wanted. It almost sounded like he was arguing with Athos and that was a happy memory. And of course what he said was right. The doctor was here and the doctor would help, Porthos knew he would.

"Don't, he's too weak."

Aramis shouldn't say these things. He wasn't too weak. A little weak, maybe, but never too weak. What if Tréville heard that, then what would he think?

"This will help."

Porthos hoped that it would. Aramis was worried, he could tell. And he didn't want Aramis to worry. He wanted the doctor to take care of it and make it go away so his friends didn't have to worried. Athos worried, too. Porthos had seen his eyes. They turned hard when Athos didn't know what to do. Hard and cold, like a well-honed blade. Porthos didn't want to worry them. He wanted to tell them it was alright, he wanted to get up and show them. He wanted…

"Take my hand."

Ah… his hand. Of course. The doctor would help, would give him relief. That would be good. It would be wonderful to finally feel better. Bleeding had been good the last time. Porthos wanted that again, that sweet relief. He didn't do much, but Aramis wrapped his fingers around his and stretched out his arm, ready for the blade. It would be good. Aramis squeezed Porthos' hand and Porthos let his eyes flicker open. It didn't last very long, but long enough to see Aramis bite down fiercely on his lip.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Aramis said.

"Please," Porthos breathed.

Bleeding brought relief, the doctor said. And it worked. The last time it had been much easier to breathe, to live. And Porthos wanted that. They wouldn't have to worry any more.

"Please don't." Aramis was pleading now and Porthos didn't understand at all. This was good, after all. He squeezed Aramis' hand. He'd be better soon. It'd be good. Surely Aramis wanted that.

There was the sharp prick of the doctor's little knife again and Porthos wanted to smile at Aramis, to let him know it would be fine. Sometimes Aramis thought too much when he should just trust. Of course, it was hard for him to trust, but the doctor knew what he was doing. Aramis had wanted him to come. Aramis thought a doctor would be good. Now he just had to keep trusting. The bleeding would help and Porthos would breathe easier. He'd be fine and Aramis wouldn't have to worry so much. It would be good.

Warm blood flowed across his skin and trickled into the bowl. It would get easier soon. Breathing and living and everything. He'd be better soon. And Aramis could relax. Athos as well… But somehow it didn't… it didn't feel right this time. Not like before. Not like… It felt like… like losing something… someone… like… And Aramis… Aramis said to stop. _Stop._ But it didn't. It was fine... It didn't need to… _Stop…_ It would get better soon, so soon... He didn't feel very good. But it was fine. He'd be better soon… Bleeding helped. He knew that. Bleeding… He was bleeding and… bleeding… the blood was warm and… and… blood… Porthos… He wasn't that weak… he could… he was… he… _Porthos, stay awake!_

He wanted to. He wanted… Aramis… Aramis… Ahh…

Nothing.

Then something.

Shouting.

Words.

Voices, so loud. And somewhere… The thought slipped away from him before it was fully formed. Others followed, sliding through Porthos' head without touching the sides. He wasn't trying to grasp them, wasn't trying to do anything. He simply observed. Thoughts passed like ships on the horizon, fuzzy and grey. Far away and not really relevant.

The shouting continued. Loud noise somewhere far away.

And then. Aramis. That was Aramis' voice.

Why was he shouting? Porthos tried to reach, to hear, to understand. Words floated in and out of focus until he could finally make some sense of one. _Murder._ But who was being murdered? From the sound of it, the person Aramis was shouting at. He was angry. But why? At Porthos? What had he done? Had he…? He didn't think he'd done… anything… Was Aramis angry at someone else? But who… who was there? Athos? No… Oh… the doctor. But the doctor only wanted… it was fine. He would bleed him and Porthos would be fine… He'd be… fine.

Aramis didn't need to be angry.

Porthos opened his eyes. The light was blinding at first, so bright. Slowly, shapes emerged from the pure white. Grey shapes at first, swimming into focus one after the other. The window… their bags in the corner… the small table laden with bottles, cups, and plates… the chair where Aramis usually…

Aramis' voice. Still angry, still shouting.

Porthos turned his head and there he was, waving his arms around like a madman. Aramis was shouting, shouting at… Tréville. When did he get there? And why? He'd been dropping in regularly, but never in the middle of the day. Why now?

Porthos focussed harder, catching words and making sense of them.

"Bleeding…" Aramis was saying something about bleeding.

"Listen." Tréville's voice. And Porthos tried. "… the king's personal… study… remedy…"

Porthos struggled to make out more than fragments. He could hear Aramis swear. He didn't need to understand the words for that. Something clattered loudly to the floor and made Porthos jump, focussing his drifting mind. He watched as Aramis grabbed the small bowl the doctor had left and smashed it onto the ground.

"Look at it," Aramis screamed as blood splattered everywhere. "Remember when you did that to me? Remember when you nearly killed me with that?"

Killing him... It had killed him once... Tréville had been angry. Shouting... Porthos had watched him drag the doctor down the stairs and throw him out of the garrison and then... There wasn't any screaming that night. They said it was the doctor's fault, that he'd tried to drain the evil spirits and had ended up draining Aramis' soul. They said he'd died. A few days later Porthos had gone and seen that Aramis was alive… barely. He'd fed him and… feeding him… he'd needed to regain his strength… Porthos smiled a little to himself. That had certainly worked. Nothing weak about Aramis now, not with the way he was carrying on.

"What's going on here?" Athos stepped into the room, hand on his sword, ready to draw. His eyes dashed from Aramis to the captain, across the spilled blood and then… "Heavens, Porthos."

Athos knelt next to the bed, removed a sodden bandage from Porthos' arm and pressed his handkerchief against the wound that was still bleeding sluggishly.

"Why did you bleed him?" Athos' sharp voice made Aramis flinch.

"I did not."

"Somebody did."

"Héroard, the physician," Tréville said.

"What business did he have… without consulting us…" Athos' fingers tightened around Porthos' arm until it hurt.

"I told him to," Aramis said.

Athos glared at him. "Blood loss kills," he said, voice dripping with venom.

Aramis averted his eyes. He was ashamed and Porthos didn't want him to be. He'd done nothing wrong. He hadn't wanted this. Not now and not the first time. It had been Porthos asking for it all along.

"Bleeding helps," he said. His voice was only a raspy whisper, but they all heard him. Immediately, Athos' face softened and his grip loosened.

"You don't look like it helped," he said.

"He took too much, he made him pass out…" Aramis kneaded his forehead. "I told him to do something, but not… I didn't think… I should have stopped him, I—"

"You had no reason to distrust him," Tréville said.

"I should have known." Aramis absentmindedly rubbed his own arm.

"Where is he now?" Athos asked. "Shouldn't he make up for his ineptitude?"

Tréville smirked. "He will not be back any time soon. Aramis made his displeasure known."

Athos lifted an eyebrow. "You threw him out?"

"Quite literally," Tréville replied.

"What now?" Athos asked, staring at Aramis. "I thought you—"

"Don't." Aramis' voice cut through his words. "I'll figure it out."

Porthos felt his chest tighten, felt the itching, the spasm, and he knew what was coming. He didn't want to. He didn't want to hurt, he didn't want to gasp for air, and most of all, he didn't want them to worry. But it was no use. He coughed.

He couldn't do anything. It was the illness that shook him, that made his body convulse, and Porthos, Porthos was powerless. Weak, too weak to mount a defense. He was being tossed back and forth on the bed like they had been by the sea. The cough came in waves and Porthos was its plaything, there to be smashed and broken. And like that day in the ocean, he struggled to breathe. He needed air, but no matter how hard he tried, there wasn't any. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes as his body became heavier and heavier, dragging him down. But he couldn't… he had to… Like he had in the sea, he was holding on to Aramis. He had to make it to the light, had to reach the surface… But he was so heavy.

Finally, there was air. Not enough, never enough, but he sucked it in greedily. Slowly, the spots cleared and the darkness receded. He lay there, flat on his back, gasping like a fish on land. The darkness was gone, but the heaviness was still there, pinning him to the bed. The breath rumbled low in Porthos' chest, reminding him of the waves crashing against the rocks. His whole body felt thoroughly smashed by those rocks on the inside as well as the outside.

Looking down on him were three worried faces. Athos wiped the sweat from his face, while Aramis put a new bandage around his arm. Tréville shook his head.

"What are we going to do with you?"

Porthos wanted to tell him he'd be fine, that he'd be fit for duty again soon, but the words caught in his throat and he coughed some more, bringing up thick yellow mucus. They helped him rinse his mouth and leaned him back against the pillows. Porthos didn't even try to speak, just smiled at them. All three of them looked too tired to return it and he was sorry for that.

"What _are_ we going to do with him?" Athos asked. "Since the expert's approach did not work to anyone's satisfaction…"

Aramis ran a hand through his hair, mussing it until his curls stuck up in odd angles. "Don't bleed him," he said.

"I assumed as much."

"He's too weak."

Porthos wanted to protest, but well… maybe Aramis had a point.

"Is it the weakness that kills, the fever, or the shortness of breath?" Athos asked.

Aramis sighed. "I don't know."

"What can be done to combat each of these?"

"I don't know." Aramis kicked the foot of the bed. "I don't know these things, Athos. I'm not a physician. And the one who is, is only making it worse."

Athos nodded. "I've seen you ease breathing with steam inhalations before. An avenue worth exploring, maybe."

"He doesn't have a slight cold, he has pneumonia."

"His breathing is still constricted."

Aramis paced up and down the small room. "You have no idea."

"No, but I'm trying to find avenues worth exploring," Athos said. "Would it do any harm to try?"

Aramis gnawed on his lower lip. "I don't think… Maybe… maybe the steam could help him bring up the phlegm and soothe his lungs."

"You said you had ways to lower the fever," Athos prompted.

Aramis shook his head. "It's not high enough to be dangerous and I don't… I don't understand what the fever does. It might help him after all."

"Reasonable," Athos said, nodding. "What about the weakness then?"

Aramis agonised over his answer, pulling his hair with both hands and biting his lip.

"He needs to rest and I think mainly he needs time," he said eventually. "But… oh God help me if I'm wrong…" He looked straight at Porthos. "Do you think you could eat?"

"Yes," Porthos said with much more confidence than he felt. He wasn't hungry and he wasn't sure if he could keep anything down. But if it made Aramis happy, he would try.

"Are you sure?" Tréville asked and Aramis turned to face him.

"No," he said. "But he's too weak and he won't get his strength back if he doesn't eat. You saw him; he can barely move. Maybe it'll feed the disease… but if we don't feed him soon, it won't matter either way."

Tréville looked at him for a long while, before nodding. "It's been known to work," he said. "Return the favour."

Aramis took a deep breath and released it slowly. Porthos watched him as he closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't like that he worried so much. It was clear that Aramis didn't like this one bit. But Porthos would be good. He would eat and he would do his level best to get better.

"Food it is then," Aramis said. "May the Lord guide my hands."

He balled his fist in his pocket, probably clutching his rosary.

"Excellent," Athos said. "I'll make enquiries with Serge straight away. The biggest piece of meat he can find. Tender, not from some old nag. Some cheese maybe, something substantial."

Aramis held up his hand to stop him. "No, a weak broth."

"A weak broth?" Athos was incredulous.

"Maybe some milk."

"Broth and milk? I thought you wanted him to get back his strength."

"I do. Hear me out."

"Aramis," Athos said earnestly. "He hasn't eaten for days. With all due respect to your caution, he needs to be fed properly."

"I know. And that's why you'll ask Serge to water down a broth."

Athos shook his head. "That's wrong. No man can build up his strength on a watery broth."

"No, but he can build up his stomach again. We'll do that first."

Athos did not look convinced in the least.

"He's right," Porthos said. His voice sounded more like a croak, but at least it didn't feel like a cough was coming. "From experience, the good stuff comes straight back up." He smiled at them. "Learned that the hard way."

Tréville drew in a sharp breath and turned away. Athos paused, taking a moment to process what Porthos had said.

"Oh," he said when it finally made sense to him. "Starvation?"

"It happens."

Athos nodded heavily. "My apologies."

Porthos wasn't sure what he was apologising for. It wasn't like Porthos expected him to have experienced it for himself. He was glad that Athos didn't know these things. Nobody should have to, but of course most people did. Not Athos, at least. That was something.

"Did it happen often?" Aramis asked. "When you were growing up, were you…?"

"We were always hungry," Porthos said. "But sometimes… sometimes it was worse."

He didn't really want to remember those times, but the feeling in his stomach, that heaviness, the tiredness… he hadn't thought of it before, but now that he had it took him straight back to the Court. It would have been Charon and Flea back then, not Athos and Aramis, but they worried much the same when one of them was ill.

"Hmm," Aramis said, scratching his chin. "I have a theory."

All three of them gave him a questioning look. It was good to see Aramis have one of his theories again, but Porthos wasn't sure he wanted to hear one about himself.

"Think about it," Aramis continued, turning towards Athos. "You've been with us, what? Three years next summer? And in all that time, have you ever been ill?"

Athos huffed with amusement. "Other than the obvious?"

"I don't mean injuries or hangovers."

"A mild catarrh my first winter," Athos said. "I wasn't used to the hours spent outside in the snow and rain."

If he'd had the strength, Porthos would have laughed. As far as he was concerned, winters with the musketeers were the most comfortable he had ever known, February swimming sessions aside.

"Exactly. But Porthos was, always had been. And yet… every time one of the men as much as sniffles, Porthos picks it up."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "A humoural imbalance, as the learned physician would say. I'm afraid I don't follow."

"For some reason, Porthos is more easily unbalanced."

No. No, he shouldn't say that sort of thing.

"I'll show you un—" The rest of Porthos' comment was lost in another coughing fit that left him shaken and gasping for air, not sure if his broken ribs were sticking out of his body or had burrowed into his heart.

"What is your theory?" Tréville asked once Porthos had settled down.

"Starvation kills," Aramis said. "Usually within a few weeks. But when it doesn't… I think it still has effects, particularly in children… you see it sometimes, we see it in recruits. The stunted growth of those who never had enough to eat."

"A fate which Porthos has clearly escaped," Athos said.

Porthos wanted to point out that Athos was the shortest of them all, but he couldn't find the breath to form words.

Athos looked at him and smirked. "The irony isn't lost on me, my friend."

Aramis didn't engage with their joke. "I was in the water longer and swallowed much more of it. And still… I'm fine."

Great. Porthos stared at the blanket, anything to not look at Tréville. Aramis really had to rub it in. And with the captain there and all. He had to go and shout about how useless Porthos was.

Aramis cleared his throat. "I think it has to do with your childhood, with starving so much. I think your body never developed some defences it would have if you had always had enough to eat."

Porthos barely felt the new coughing fit that gripped him or the pain when his ribs strained. His lungs burned and rumbled, but the thoughts in his minds were much louder. His childhood. He wasn't a child any more, he wasn't _that_. He was a musketeer.

"It's only a theory," Aramis said. "You know Vincent de Paul that priest in Paris who does all the work with the poor?"

And those freed galley slaves, Porthos' mind supplied. That priest was a saint as far as he was concerned.

"I was helping him bring food to the poor," Aramis said.

When he'd been able to do little around the garrison, but well enough to go out, he'd often gone to the church. Another reason to be thankful to that priest.

"There was a doctor there for a while, studying the health and habits of the poor. He said something along those lines."

"What do you think can be done?" Athos asked.

"If what I think is true… That doctor said the foundations of our bodies are laid in childhood. And I don't think you can heal that sort of wound… You can't make a man grow taller and while you can balance the humours… I don't think you can make them easier to unbalance. Not in this life at any rate."

Porthos shuddered. He'd left that life behind. And yet… as Aramis said it, Porthos could feel its cold fingers on his shoulder… the cold fingers of a small orphan boy frozen half to death in some back alley… He thought he'd shaken that boy, but now, there he was, clinging to his back, dragging him down.

From the corner of his eye, Porthos saw the captain stare at him. Of course, he didn't want… this. The pauper, the beggar, the gutter rat. The diseased dog in the middle of his men, his valiant musketeers…

Tréville brushed a hand across his face and turned on his heels, slamming the door on his way out.


	17. Pneumonia (4 of 4)

**Pneumonia (4/4)**

"So he's gone?" Aramis asked.

"Yes." Athos' reply was clipped. He leaned heavily against the door.

"And the others?"

"They all are." Athos massaged his forehead with his thumbs. "In this room, we have assembled half of what's left of the regiment at La Rochelle."

"Who else is staying?"

"Bisset. Captain Tréville didn't think he was fit for the long ride. Bernard is with him, to keep him company as much as to be useful around here. One of the boys, Hugo, to look after our horses."

Aramis whistled low through his teeth. "Not many."

"We are the king's musketeers," Athos said. "We go where the king goes."

Only they didn't, not this time. Porthos was sorry to be the chain and ball around their legs, but it couldn't be helped. They'd made it very clear that they were unwilling to leave him and that, at any rate, Tréville had forbidden it.

"Even when we don't approve." Aramis looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience.

"It is not for us to approve, nor indeed for Captain Tréville, or in fact the cardinal, who have both tried to keep the king here."

"Tried and failed." Aramis shook his head. "It's madness. He needs to be at La Rochelle, he needs to show his troops… and the Huguenots of course. What kind of siege is it where the commander leaves?"

"Richelieu is the commander." Athos looked at both of them in turn. "Who, you should know, we are to report to directly."

Aramis patted Athos' shoulder. "Think we'll leave that to you."

Athos huffed, but Porthos was proud of him. Tréville trusted him. The captain knew Athos wouldn't embarrass him and wouldn't let his men come to any harm. Athos was good at being in charge. He didn't make a big deal of it, but Porthos knew.

After the king left the camp, things went downhill. Porthos caught snatches of conversation here and there. The declining morale among the troops and the lack of order now that many of the high-ranking officers had gone, as well as some bitter comments about how it was carnival season and an excellent time for hunting back in Paris. More important things. More important than the siege, the soldiers… It all seemed so pointless now that the king had turned his attention elsewhere.

Pointless… the word swam through Porthos' mind so many times. Pointless to continue the siege without the king here, their leader and commander. Pointless to follow the cardinal when he wasn't the instrument of the king's will. Pointless to have musketeers remain here without their king to protect and fight for. Pointless to have two musketeers sitting by his bed.

Hours and days flowed into each other, an endless stream of coughs and pain and sweat and shivers. It could have been an eternity, or no time at all. Porthos didn't know. They made him eat and he wanted to ask, but eating and coughing and thinking was hard work and he forgot. And somehow it didn't matter.

Aramis changed the bandages around his arm, holding it gently. Porthos thought he could have held up his arm by himself, but he didn't really mind and didn't really try. It was fine… so fine… so…

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered and Porthos wondered what he was sorry for.

"I'm so—" Aramis' voice hitched and Porthos noticed that his eyes were shining with tears. He wondered what Aramis knew that he didn't. Or didn't want to know. He was so weak he knew what was coming. And Aramis knew. But Porthos didn't want him to… didn't want to think of it himself…

Then again… He wondered… If he really… then what would happen? Athos would sit and write a letter, his hands no longer bandaged. He'd report to Tréville and Tréville… Porthos wanted to believe that the captain would be sad. He hadn't been back to see him before he left, but Porthos understood. Moving almost the entire regiment would have kept him busy, too busy to look in on one lowly man. But he liked to think that the captain cared. He cared about all of them. He'd be sad when he read Athos' letter. By that time, Porthos would be long buried. He'd never thought of that. It would be odd to be buried and so far from home. But he guessed he'd had it coming a long time now. He should have died that day when he first met Tréville… and even back then, he'd been kind. He'd be sad, Porthos was sure.

They'd be, too. Athos and Aramis. But they'd move on. More battles to fight, more people to meet… He'd be a memory. It wasn't a bad thought. He hoped they'd remember him like he used to be. Strong and skilled and ready to laugh. He longed to be that man again, at least in their memories. If they could do that for him then there was nothing to worry about. They'd be fine and he'd be, too.

He was floating.

It wasn't a sudden realisation that he would die. It wasn't tied to pain or to suffocating or to anything in particular. It appeared at some point and then it slowly grew larger like a ship on the horizon until he knew it for sure. The doctor's treatment hadn't work and Aramis' treatment wasn't working either. There wasn't any other way now. He would die.

It wasn't a bad thought, not really, but he was sorry to leave. He knew that God knew best. He could hear Aramis pray and knew it was on his behalf. It made him feel warm inside to know he was protected like that. But it didn't mean he wanted to leave. There was so much he wanted to do. He'd seen the mountains, he'd seen the sea… he'd made friends and become a musketeer… But there was so much left to do.

Flea.

He'd meant to find her and talk to her, but there was always so much going on. First, he hadn't been sure he was really a musketeer and then there was Aramis and then Athos and then… He'd walked past the Court sometimes and paused for a moment, thinking he should go in, but he never had. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was not wanting her to laugh at him. And now… now she'd never know how happy he'd been, how much he'd loved… She'd never know how much he'd thought of her. She'd never know that it was possible for them to live outside the Court and be happy.

He wished Athos could write a letter to Flea as well. But of course no messenger would deliver it to the Court and nobody would be able to read it there. And even if… What would he say? He imagined dictating the letter to Athos. All those years… He'd been back in Paris for so long she must have known. And yet she never found him. Maybe she wanted to forget. Maybe she was happy, too. Maybe… But oh, how he missed her.

Sometimes he thought she was there. He could feel her fingers, calloused but gentle. He could see her hair, glowing in the sun. But when he blinked, it was always Aramis.

He slept a lot, but whenever he woke, Aramis was there, or sometimes Athos as well. They fed him and they washed him and they held him when he coughed. Coughing still felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. He preferred sword wounds or bullets to this.

He was sitting up in bed and coughing so hard it felt like he was being scraped raw. It looked it, too. Splotches of blood appeared on the white handkerchief Aramis held for him. When it was over, Aramis discarded the handkerchief. Porthos watched him carefully put his face back together into his usual mask of calm and composure. It didn't quite work. The pieces wouldn't fit. For once, the cracks were showing.

Porthos reached out his hand and Aramis took it. They sat in silence, but there was so much being said.

Porthos' eyes filled with tears. One after the other, the tears rolled down his face. He didn't wipe them away. They had every reason to be there. Aramis' fingers twitched in his. Aramis was blinking fast, pressing his lips together in a tight line, but there was no denying that he was crying as well.

Porthos swallowed, his sore throat constricting painfully.

"What are you going to do when I die?" he asked.

Aramis' face went slack as he abandoned all attempts to hide his tears. They flowed freely. His eyes turned red, but he never moved them away from Porthos, staring at him like he wanted to memorise his face.

"I don't know," he said, voice unnaturally high. He brushed roughly over his face with his sleeve. "I can't handle it all."

He was sniffing now, swallowing heavily and gritting his jaw, but unable to stop the tears. He looked miserable and Porthos wanted to do something, wanted to help, but really…

"How do you think I feel?" he asked. Because it wasn't Aramis who was dying, it was him.

Aramis didn't need to reply. After a moment, he slipped from his chair and onto Porthos' bed. They sat there, staring at each other with wet eyes. They both knew there was nothing to be said. It just… was.

Aramis leaned forward and pulled Porthos into a hug. They cried quietly together, clinging to each other for some kind of reassurance.

And then Porthos coughed.

Of course, the cough had to ruin everything. Couldn't even let him have that one moment of peace. But Aramis didn't let go. He held Porthos throughout it all, holding the pieces together and letting him lean against his shoulder for support. Porthos was helpless, being shaken by the cough, spluttering over Aramis' shoulder and onto his shirt, too weak to do anything. But Aramis was there. He didn't flinch, didn't move. He kept rubbing Porthos' back with long, soothing strokes, kept holding him tight enough to support, but not so tight as to restrict his breathing. It felt good and safe and like he was home.

Maybe it was that. It wasn't just Aramis either. It was Athos coming back into their room and every time without fail asking Porthos how he was, listening patiently to his wheezed replies or giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze when he was too weak to talk. It was Bisset and Bernard and even Hugo the stable boy sending their best wishes and support. It was the food made specially for him. All of those things played together, supporting each other like they did in a fight. It was a fight, after all. And it was good to know that he wasn't alone.

Somehow, slowly, Porthos got better. It was so gradual, he didn't even notice at first. But then he was speaking more and coughing less and one day, rather than dreading each bite, he found himself asking for a little more at the end of a meal. He was still tired most of the time, but it started to feel more like a cold and less like dying. In a way, it felt like spring had come early that year. Still some lingering frost, but also the knowledge that better times lay ahead, that the time for sickness and hunger was almost past.

He really noticed he was getting better when Aramis started to leave him alone for short periods of time. Never for long, but long enough to assure Porthos that he wasn't in any immediate danger of keeling over.

Not that he was steady on his feet either. After a few days of feeling like he wasn't dying just yet, he refused to use the chamber pot. Athos, who had been sitting quietly, writing a letter, was so alarmed by his announcement that he left a splotch of ink on the paper.

"I really don't think that's a good idea," he said, furiously blotting the page.

"I've got to get up some time," Porthos said.

Athos looked uneasy at that, but Porthos stared him down. He knew this would be easier with Athos than with Aramis.

"You better be certain of this," Athos said. "If anything happens, Aramis will have my head."

"If you'd rather I go alone…"

Athos huffed in annoyance. "He'd definitely have my head for that."

It all went well, of course it did, because while Porthos wasn't at his best, he definitely _was_ able to walk down the corridor and relieve himself.

It was walking back _up_ the corridor that was the challenge. Porthos could have sworn it had stretched from a few feet to leagues. He knew he was slowing down and he knew that Athos was glaring at him. He also knew he could do this. Somehow. It wasn't like he was walking back to Paris or even to La Rochelle. He was just walking back to his bed. He could do that. He could force his knees to not buckle, his lungs to not cough, and his eyes to stop telling him the whole world was spinning. Aramis didn't call him a stubborn old mule for nothing. He could totally do this. He could absolutely, totally do this.

The wall crashed into him.

"Steady," Athos said, grabbing his arm.

Porthos glared at the wall he was now, somehow, leaning against. The whitewashed stone looked entirely innocent, like it hadn't just assaulted him.

"Come on, then." Athos tugged his elbow. "Let's keep you on the straight and narrow."

Porthos batted his hand away. "I don't need—"

"… to get any more bruises or scratches by stumbling into walls," Athos finished his sentence for him. "Aramis. The integrity of my neck. You appreciate my concern."

"I'm fine," Porthos protested.

Entirely unimpressed, Athos lead him down the corridor at a safe distance from the wall. "As I have told you about my own state on countless occasions," he said. "Only to be disregarded every time. Excuse me if I follow your example in this."

Porthos huffed. It really did feel very much like the many, many nights when he'd made sure Athos got home in one piece. Only it didn't feel like that at all because usually it wasn't Porthos trying to sway as little as possible, to carry his own weight as much as possible, and to not seem quite as dizzy as he was. Not that he wanted Athos to get drunk, but Porthos had to admit he liked it much better when it was him doing the leading.

Porthos sat down with a groan. Of course, sitting down hurt. He was breathing hard, exhausted from his little excursion. Because apparently going for a piss was now a difficult battle for him. He sighed, burying his face in his hands. This sucked.

"What can I do for you?" Athos asked.

Porthos wanted to tell him to leave him, to go away, but really, that wasn't fair. "Give me a moment," he said instead.

"But you made it," Athos said. He sounded properly proud. Sure enough, it would have been something special for a two-year-old.

Porthos kicked his foot against the bed. That's what it had come to; that was the level he was at. Good job, little baby, you only needed Uncle Athos holding your hand while you took your first steps. Well done.

"What is it?" Athos asked.

"What is it?" Porthos wanted to shove Athos' posh, polished accent right down his posh, polished throat. "What do you _think_ it is?"

He looked up, glaring at Athos.

Athos raised an eyebrow. "I would not be asking if I knew."

"I'm bloody useless!" Porthos threw a pillow across the room. "Can't even walk on my own."

"You are not." Athos sounded as patient and long-suffering as a kind father with his child. Because that was Porthos' role. The little boy they had to drag along, that they put up with because he was occasionally entertaining and they were kind men after all.

"I mean it," Athos said, pouring wine for them both. He handed Porthos a cup.

Porthos stared into the red liquid. They should have let him bleed out. They could have gone with the king and be back in Paris now and not stuck here with him and the cardinal. Not that Porthos wanted to be dead, not even close. But he didn't want to be this.

"I'm holding you back," Porthos mumbled into his wine.

"From what?" Athos asked.

"From…" Porthos hesitated. It was obvious. "From being you. Being musketeers."

"One for all and all for one. We might not be the whole regiment, but we are certainly representing the _all_ here."

Porthos gulped down his wine in one while Athos studied him patiently over the rim of his cup.

"You dislike being the _one_ rather than part of the _all,"_ Athos observed.

Porthos sighed. He wasn't in the mood for Athos' philosophical nonsense.

"I dislike being useless."

"As I already said—"

"Don't. I can't even walk. Of course I'm…" Porthos shook his head. "You know why I'm a musketeer. Tréville doesn't keep me around for this."

"Why does he keep you, in your opinion?"

Porthos laughed bitterly. "Not many reasons, eh? I'm strong and hardy, that's why."

"So now that you are neither, you feel useless. I see." Athos nodded slowly. "You're more than that though."

"Right… I'm hard-working as well. Sure looks it now." Porthos picked at a loose thread.

"These are not the qualities Captain Tréville values the most in you," Athos said.

Porthos didn't reply. If Tréville didn't value that, then what? Did he keep him around out of pity? Or out of some misplaced guilt over the bridge incident years ago?

"He values your skill and your intelligence, your courage and devotion," Athos continued.

Porthos huffed. "I don't have any of that. No more than any other musketeer."

"You do."

 _"You_ do. You're the best swordsman in the regiment. You're the second in command."

"I'm not."

"As good as."

"Whatever I am, I would be much less without you."

"Sure." Porthos crossed his arms. It still hurt his ribs but wasn't too bad now. He'd rather have that sting than to continue this talk. But Athos wasn't so easily silenced.

"I wouldn't be alive without you, nor would Aramis. You leaped after him—"

"Everyone would have. I was closest. If you had been then—"

"Then Aramis would be dead. I would not have dived into the freezing, churning sea in the middle of an English attack to search for a man who was, in all likelihood, already dead."

"That's not true."

Athos cocked his head and looked at Porthos with an odd half-smile. "That insistence is what makes you so remarkable and far from useless. You see the best in people and you give your all, no matter what."

Porthos didn't know what to reply to that. "Was only one thing, getting Aramis," he mumbled.

"Only saving a brother's life," Athos said. He let it linger, turning away from Porthos towards the table. And of course there was nothing _only_ about Aramis. Of course not. It was just… just Porthos, really.

Athos shuffled through some papers. "You have no idea how much he cares about you," he said.

"I know Aramis—"

"Not Aramis. Captain Tréville."

Porthos' breath caught in his throat and he coughed. He waved off Athos' attempt to help. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Athos' words went round and round in his head. When his cough finally quietened, he shook his head to get rid of them. "He cares about all of us," he said.

Athos still wore that strange little smile, which was probably some sort of record for him.

"He doesn't let all of us touch his records."

Oh. That. Porthos looked away.

"Every letter he writes, he asks about you," Athos said. "In every letter, there's fear that while he's writing you are already dead."

Porthos picked at the blanket, tugging at a loose thread and digging his finger into a small hole.

"The captain's not afraid," he said. "He's gotta make sure the regiment's alright."

Athos continued to go through the papers on the table. He sorted them into a pile and carefully set out one blank sheet, the inkwell, and the quill. He didn't sit down though.

"Write to him," he said.

"That's your thing."

Athos looked at him like he was being dense. He really was turning into Tréville.

"Your report will be more meaningful than mine," he said. "He won't readily believe me that you are up and fine. He has no choice if it's written in your hand."

"I can't…"

"You can and you have. He trusted you with the regimental records after all."

That was a fond memory. Writing in a book. Writing the history of the regiment. Not big history, of course, but still events that had happened and he had been trusted to record them.

"Alright." Porthos got up. His blood rushed to his feet and he swayed. The room was small enough for him to catch himself on the table.

"Maybe not right now," Athos said.

Porthos shook his head. "I'm up now."

To Athos' credit, he didn't say any more about it. Once again, Porthos was glad that Aramis was out. He sat in a chair for the first time in what felt like years. It wasn't comfortable, but he wasn't going to moan about that. At least his head had stopped spinning. He straightened the already perfectly straight paper.

"So now what?" he asked.

Athos leaned back against the windowsill. "My suggestion would be the same procedure we followed previously. Since this is your letter, you may of course alter my words at any point."

Porthos nodded and carefully picked up the quill. It felt odd to force his fingers around something so small. It was slow progress and didn't look very neat. Athos had to spell out a great many words. Not that it was a long letter, either, but by the time he'd signed his name at the bottom, Porthos was insanely proud of his work. He never really got to sign his name anywhere. It felt very official, like he was an officer or something.

Athos looked over the letter and found nothing wrong with it at all. He folded it and sealed it and made it look even more official.

"We'll send it off to Paris tomorrow," Athos said.

Porthos pictured that whole long journey, all those days of riding across fields and rivers and everything. And his letter would travel there. Back to Paris, back home to the garrison. He thought of the captain in his office, breaking the seal and reading the letter. It was incredible to think that they could share their news like that, that even though there were many leagues between them, Tréville would see his words in a week or so. Would see his words and know he was still alive. He hoped it would make Tréville happy. He didn't want him to worry any more.

"Your penmanship has improved greatly," Athos said.

Porthos shook his head. "'s nothing special."

"It's more than most. Even within the regiment, few can say they've written a letter of their own. Given your circumstances, it's most remarkable."

Porthos had no desire to discuss his circumstances. They'd find some way to say his childhood had ruined him for life and he didn't want to hear that. Not again. Thankfully, Athos kept quiet. He helped Porthos back into bed and made sure he had something to drink. Then he leaned back against the windowsill once more, crossed his arms, and looked Porthos up and down.

"You can do many things," he said.

"Well, I can't spell without your help." Porthos picked at the blanket again. He knew he hadn't done well today.

Athos shrugged. "And you don't have to."

"Always needing help," Porthos grumbled. And even with Athos' help… He'd struggled with many words and even had to cross out a few mistakes.

"We'll need yours," Athos said. "I'd encourage you to rest and get your strength back."

He sounded more serious than before. Porthos scrunched up his face, trying to read Athos. He had the feeling this was about more than his health. "What are you on about?"

Athos poured himself another drink and took a long, slow sip. "I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," he said. Then a quick smile flickered across his face. "But I know it won't leave this room and I believe you should know. There's a plan to enter the city."

Porthos' eyebrows shot up. After all these months they'd finally take La Rochelle? All that waiting and building and sitting around and now, with the king gone, they'd go in at last?

"How?" he asked.

"There's a small canal passing under the wall," Athos explained. "Used to transport salt in the past and now poorly guarded, sealed by a wooden gate."

"Do you know how it's secured?"

"It's not very strong from what I've heard."

"Easier to open than break through. Quieter as well."

"The purpose is hardly to be undetected."

Porthos huffed out a laugh. "You'd still be in the water and fighting your way up the banks as soon as they discover you."

"Us."

"I'm not ready."

"There's still ice on the canal. We're aiming for mid-March."

"Mid-March…" Porthos stared out of the window at the bare branches of a tree. That was a month or so away. Much could happen in a month. "I need a description of that gate and the lock."

"The plan is to blow it up."

Porthos shook his head. "That's a lot of men and effort to get enough powder there and keep it dry. As soon as the ice's gone, it'll be marshy again. There must be a better way."

"You should work on getting well fast then. You've got the cardinal to convince."

Porthos held up his hands. "Definitely your job, that."

"I'll do the talking if you want," Athos said. "But I would look rather ridiculous expounding the virtues of lock-picking."

Porthos chuckled at that.

"We'll need you," Athos said.

"Sure," Porthos said. "For the illegal stuff."

"In the service of the king it's hardly illegal. It'll be an asset to us all."

"It'll save your lives sure enough."

Athos smirked. "And makes you anything but useless."


	18. Kidnapping (1 of 4)

_This fic takes place during the Siege of La Rochelle (1627-1628) as part of the French Wars of Religion against the Huguenots. It depicts the effects of brutal siege warfare in a protracted religious conflict. Mentions of rape, child death, and mass killings in Chapters 3 and 4. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read._

 **Kidnapping**

The sun dipped slowly towards the ocean. Porthos didn't long for the sea, but he liked looking out that way where all seemed open and free. Far above his head, seagulls circled, drifting on a breeze he couldn't feel. The stifling heat of the day was fading. Watching his surroundings no longer felt like staring into a roaring furnace. But Porthos was still uncomfortable, his skin sticky with sweat and dust after a long day as a lookout. He rubbed his shoulder against the rough-hewn stones, trying to scratch an itch.

Next to him, Aramis stood still, finger on the trigger of his musket, staring at La Rochelle. He narrowed his eyes as the glare of the setting sun made it difficult to distinguish anything.

"Let's go," Porthos said. "We're done for the day."

Tomorrow, they'd be back at some other spot for yet another day of staring at yet another gate. They always moved him. Aramis was the best sniper by far and they didn't want the people of La Rochelle to learn where he was. Much better to make them live in fear of his sudden shots, to make them think there was more than one man. There were others, of course, but none of them were as good.

Aramis didn't move.

"Come on," Porthos said. "Athos was here an hour ago. You heard him. Time to go home."

He wished it really was home they were going to. Home to Paris and his room at the garrison. Instead, home was the room they shared at the castle of Aytré. They'd been at the coast for a good nine month and more than half of that they'd spent in that room. They were lucky, of course, and couldn't complain.

Complaining wasn't Porthos' style and really, there wasn't much to complain about when you knew you were doing the king's work and God's as well. Fighting for their country and the church; wasn't much more a soldier could ask for. Porthos just wished that something would move. Anything at all.

Aramis certainly made no attempt at it, so Porthos looked up at the birds again. Sometimes it took Aramis a while to come back to himself after a day on duty. His head often hurt, focussing so hard for so long. Tonight would be one of those nights; Porthos could tell. He smiled at his friend. He was so dedicated, even after all these months.

"Come," Porthos said. "You deserve—"

"Shh."

Surprised by the harsh reply, Porthos followed his friend's gaze. Aramis' eyes were fixed on the gate opposite them in the city's wall. It was difficult to make out details in this light, but after a whole day of looking at it, Porthos knew it well. The dark wood nestled between the massive towers. This road must have been busy before the siege, leading out to the mill they now used as a lookout, back when the mill had its sails and the city had grain to grind.

Porthos couldn't see anything at first. He narrowed his eyes and adjusted his hat, trying to find what Aramis saw. Suddenly, he spotted it. A slight movement, then another, and a third. Three men were darting from one bush to another, barely visible against the marshy fields. He wasn't sure where the men were headed, but they had picked the right time for their excursion. The sun was in their backs, blinding anyone watching, and with the long shadows and shifting light they were nearly impossible to sight, even if they had been within shooting distance.

The three didn't seem to be aware that they were being watched. The outer wall, held by the royal army, was far away. Porthos doubted they were headed that way. They would know by now that that was certain death.

Porthos' eyes stung, so he decided to watch Aramis instead. His job wasn't to be the eyes. It was to hand Aramis another musket, to reload his when necessary. Mostly it was to keep Aramis watered and fed and somewhat sane.

Aramis' finger twitched, the flash lit up his face, and the shot rang out. He was pushed back by the recoil, but immediately steadied himself and handed his musket to Porthos, getting back into position with the second weapon. Porthos didn't reload. He stared at the spot where one of the men had fallen. He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think he twitched at all. Probably dead on the spot.

His two companions were haring back to the gate. Aramis followed them with eyes and muzzle. Porthos held his breath until the men had disappeared into the city. Then he turned to Aramis.

"What the hell?"

Aramis lowered the musket and took a step back. "What?"

The thunder of a cannon interrupted them. They tensed. The Huguenots answered every shot, trying to eliminate the snipers. Unlike Aramis, they missed.

"What'd you shoot him for?" Porthos asked.

"Being an enemy."

Porthos tore the cartridge open with his teeth and spat out the paper. "You didn't have to do that."

"And let them get to the wall to be hanged?"

Porthos glared at him. "You could have given them a warning shot."

Aramis took the cartridge and musket from his hands, loading as he spoke. "You saw what happened. They started running as soon as I shot. They were too far away for me to hit them as they ran."

Porthos snorted. He still couldn't believe Aramis had made that shot at all. "Straight through the heart?" he asked.

Aramis rammed the wadding down the barrel. "I think so."

Porthos threw his hands in the air. "You're impossible."

He didn't know if he was complaining or complimenting him.

"I did my duty."

A stupid excuse, hiding behind duty. "He wasn't threatening the king, he wasn't a danger to us." Porthos snarled. "You murdered him."

Aramis shrugged. "I picked the weakest one. Made his death quicker and easier."

"How can you say that?"

Aramis brushed a bit of stray powder from the barrel and leaned the second musket against the wall. "What were his choices?" he asked. "Make it to the wall and be hanged? Or go back and die of starvation?"

"They were coming for crops." Porthos gestured towards overgrown fields. Nobody had tended them this year, but there was still some food to be found. Nettles and berries; they took everything.

"How long would that buy them? A day? A week? It's a siege, Porthos. We're here to end it."

"And you're the one to do that?" That was ridiculous. "Thousands of men all around and the king and the cardinal and even Tréville and you think you shooting innocent men will make them break?"

"We all do our part."

Porthos kicked the wall hard enough to make both muskets clatter to the floor. "We're musketeers, not murderers. We defend. We don't shoot civilians."

Aramis crossed his arms. "There are no civilians in a siege. Women and children, I'll accept, but not young men. When we take the city, every one of them left alive will mean the death of one of us."

"When we take the city, that's when we'll deal with them. Not when they're searching for food."

"You and your soft heart." Aramis shook his head. "It'll be the end of you one day."

"No danger for you then," Porthos spat. "You think you're so damn good at this, your heart has turned to stone."

Aramis snorted. "Suit yourself."

He turned back to look out towards La Rochelle and didn't say another word. Porthos glared at his back. Taking a man's life with no need and just shrugging it off…

"You better say some prayers," he said, turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs. That wasn't the Aramis he knew. Aramis wasn't like that. Aramis was kind and caring and saved lives. And yes, he took lives, they all did, but they didn't shoot people like hares.

Porthos strode towards the outer fortifications, back to the rest of the army. Behind the vast ring of forts waited his dinner, Athos, and a glass of wine. A bucket of water to rid himself of the sweat and dust wouldn't go amiss either. Maybe another one to dump over Aramis' head to make him come back to his senses.

The deafening crack of another cannon shattered whatever was left of the peaceful evening. With a great splash, the heavy ball disappeared into a small lake nearby. The cannons weren't very accurate, certainly not over that sort of distance. Trying to pinpoint a sniper and hit him was nearly impossible.

Porthos wasn't worried. He was one man on a meandering path. Even with the sun in their backs, they wouldn't be able to hit him. Anyways, God was on the king's side, Aramis always said. He would protect them. Still… Porthos hesitated and turned back to look at the mill. He hoped that Aramis would leave it soon and join them. He was a sitting duck in that place.

Back at the musketeers' camp, Porthos sniffed the bucket of water. The surrounding area was marshy and the water was never clear. With the recent heat, it had also begun to smell like dirty socks. He sighed. Nothing for it unless he fancied a swim in the sea. Which he didn't. Aramis had tried to teach him, but… Porthos shook himself. He didn't want to think about Aramis and he didn't want to think about the damn sea. And Aramis in the sea and... No. Aramis and his thick, stinky head wouldn't make him think about any of that. It would all be forgiven in the morning, but for now he wasn't best-pleased with his friend.

He washed off the sweat and dust of the day, but the lukewarm water only made him sweat more. The temperature hadn't dropped much. The air was still muggy. It weighed him down like a heavy blanket. Breathing could still be hard at times.

Serge handed him bread and ham and Porthos nicked a carrot while the cook wasn't looking. He munched on that while he made his way through the crowd. Men sat in small groups on the ground or around the long tables.

There were a few games of cards being played. Porthos threatened to join one group, laughing at their protests. Sometimes he'd have fun with new recruits, but most of the older men refused to play with him by now. Only a few persistent ones still tried their luck, Aramis said. Athos called them stupid.

Athos sat a little apart, staring at the bottle of wine in his hands.

"You alright?" Porthos asked.

Athos grunted his reply. Porthos flopped down next to him and began to tear into his food.

"Scorcher of a day," he said.

Athos handed him the bottle and Porthos took a long drink.

"Thanks," Porthos said, wiping his lips on his sleeve. Not that the wine was cold, but it sure smelled better than the water. "Think there's going to be a storm tonight?"

Athos shrugged. Porthos rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed after a day on top of that god-forsaken mill with a near-silent Aramis was a brooding Athos. He looked at his friend. He was harder to read than Aramis. With Aramis, he could tell if it was a headache, a broken heart, or something else. With Athos… unless it was the wine, it was never obvious what was wrong.

"What'd you get up to today?" he asked.

Athos snatched the bottle back and drank some more. "The usual."

Porthos gave him a moment to see if he'd continue, but he didn't.

"Captain's working you too hard," Porthos prompted

"Needs doing."

Porthos shook his head. This was going to be a long evening if two words was all he was going to get at a time. He didn't mind a bit of silence, not at all, but he'd had a full day of it, so really, it was getting old. Digging words out of Athos seemed as slow and painful as digging a musket ball from a wound.

"It's too hot to even eat," Porthos said.

Athos looked at the last piece of bread in his hand. "You manage."

"Got to keep my strength up." Porthos patted his stomach.

"Hm." Athos returned to staring at the bottle.

Porthos stared at him. Tréville did work him too hard. The king was frustrated with the siege and all the talk of the English fleet and God knows what else, so Tréville spent most of his days in counsel with the cardinal and other high up officers. But someone had to take care of the day to day running of the regiment and that was mostly Athos now. It was a lot of work and a lot of men to keep busy when nothing ever happened. No wonder Athos was tired.

Porthos left him in peace. He brought him another bottle of wine and sat with him in silence. Not that there was much to say. Sitting around in some old mill didn't make for an exciting tale. He wondered where they'd be the next day. They never knew until the morning. Keep the surprise. There were Huguenot spies everywhere, so no point telling people things before they had to know.

"Where's Aramis?" Athos asked.

Porthos shrugged. "He'll come."

"I see."

Porthos doubted that. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "He had a kill today."

Athos nodded. "Good."

Porthos grimaced. Of course, Athos was right. It was good. That's why they were out there. That's why they risked their lives within reach of the city's canons. That's what made Aramis special. Of course a kill was good. But it was also the death of a young man who was only trying to find food. Porthos had been there too many times to not feel sympathy.

Since Athos wasn't in any mood for conversation, Porthos listened to those around them. There wasn't much laughter that night. Everyone was sweating and bored and miserable. Still, their arguments were better than seeing that poor man on the ground again and again. Porthos hoped they'd come and get his body in the night. Give him a proper burial, if Huguenots did such things. Maybe they didn't. Maybe their souls just went straight to hell and nobody cared about their bodies. Never knew with them.

No, he wasn't going to think about that. It was done now. Not for that poor man's family of course, but— No, he wasn't going there.

Serge was directing the clean-up operation. Porthos watched him swat one of the kitchen boys for dropping a loaf of bread onto the dusty ground. Couldn't be having that, not on Serge's watch.

Suddenly, one of the recruits came running.

"Athos," he cried. "You've got to come. Quick!"

Athos raised a questioning eyebrow.

"It's Co–Clotard." The lad was in such a frenzy he was stumbling over his words. "He's got Matthieu by the neck, said he's— Oh you got to help him!"

"Show me." Athos heaved himself to his feet.

The boy was already running ahead. "He's going to kill him for sure."

Athos scowled and followed. Porthos brought up the rear.

They didn't need a guide. Their fellow musketeers were drawn to the fight like moths to a flame. Soon, Athos stopped outside a tight circle of men, all shouting warnings and encouragement. Behind the wall of heads and shoulders, Porthos could catch the occasional glimpse of flying limbs.

He watched Athos frown and squeeze his eyes together as if he had a headache. After a brief moment, Athos' face settled back into its usual blank mask as he tried to weave through the men. They wouldn't shift, too caught up in the fight to even notice who was behind them. Only when Porthos pushed and elbowed them apart, did Athos manage to make his way through the crowd.

Looking very far from being killed, Matthieu was holding his own against the much younger Clotard. He was kneeling on Clotard's chest, pulling his hair with one hand.

"Gentlemen," Athos said.

Nobody listened.

"Gentlemen, please," Athos said more loudly.

In that moment, Clotard flipped them and the crowd jeered and cheered as he pummelled the older musketeer.

Athos was now shouting for attention, but nobody paid him any heed, which seemed to confuse him. With every ignored shout, he grew more and more flustered. When Clotard grabbed Matthieu's head and knocked it into the dust, Porthos gave Athos a nudge.

"Come on," he hissed. Athos stared at him with wide eyes but did nothing. He'd have hell to pay with Aramis if this ended in a head injury. Porthos pushed Athos' shoulders, making him take one small step towards the fighters. Not that it mattered. The whole mass of people was constantly shifting.

"Stop it," Athos said so quietly that Porthos wasn't sure if it was directed at Clotard or himself.

Porthos sighed and stepped around Athos, pushing aside two of the most eager spectators.

"You heard him," he roared, knowing full well that they hadn't. "Stop it. Now!"

He grabbed Clotard from behind, lifting him off Matthieu. It was too easy. They'd have to work on his awareness in a fight. Couldn't always count on having just one enemy. Clotard was stunned for long enough that Porthos could wrap his arms around him, squeezing so tight he gasped for air. Then Clotard recovered and started to fight back, landing a few ineffective kicks to Porthos' shins.

"Enough," Porthos shouted right into Clotard's ear. "You're making a fool of yourself."

"And of the regiment," Athos added, glaring at the man in Porthos' grip. He didn't raise his voice, but he didn't need to any more. Silence fell as soon as Porthos ended the fight.

Matthieu was struggling to his feet, looking slightly dazed, but catching his breath now. As soon as he got up, he rushed forward. Athos stopped him with a hand to the chest.

"One more step and Captain Tréville will hear of this. You're bringing the musketeers into disrepute."

There were murmurs at that. Porthos shivered to see mutiny in so many eyes.

"What were you thinking?" Athos hissed. "You are musketeers, not rabid dogs."

Porthos grimaced at Athos' choice of words. No man liked being called a dog. No man liked a grass either, second in command or not. It's wasn't hard to see what they were thinking. They were bored out of their minds, all of them. Sitting around month after month wasn't what they were trained to do. A few of the men stepped closer, tightening the ring around them. Porthos looked at Athos, hoping he'd have something smart to say to make them see sense.

Athos didn't.

The voices grew louder. The men came closer.

And then the bell rang, telling them it was ten minutes till curfew time.

"I suggest you retreat to your quarters," Athos said. "Do not bring further dishonour upon the regiment."

Men grumbled at that, but Athos turned on his heel and pushed through them, not looking at anyone. Porthos dropped Clotard so he could cover Athos' back.

Athos didn't notice the murderous glares directed at him. He didn't even stop for a bottle of wine but kept walking towards the castle and their room. Behind them, Porthos could hear the musketeers disperse. Curfew was strict in the royal camp. Anyone caught out after hours was guilty of desertion.

"Are they leaving?" Athos asked eventually.

Porthos looked over his shoulders. The crowd had scattered and everyone was moving towards their quarters. "Yes," he said.

"Good. It would be a stain on the regiment's reputation to have musketeers executed as deserters."

Porthos shook his head at Athos' tone of voice. Sure, men had been shot for breaking curfew. But to Porthos that wasn't a source of happiness. He cared about their reputation and all. He was proud of it, of being a musketeer. But the men mattered more. Obviously, Porthos was the only one who thought that.

First Aramis and now Athos.

Porthos growled. They were no better than Clotard and Matthieu and those cheering them on. A bit of boredom was one thing. But nobody cared any more. Like the sun had melted away all their morals and decency.

Athos opened the door to their room and stopped suddenly.

"Where is he?" he asked.

Porthos looked over Athos' shoulder and well, all he could say was that Aramis wasn't there. The bed and bedrolls were untouched. His stomach clenched. What if Aramis… he'd left him all alone, out there in no-man's land, and what if…

"Never mind. I can imagine." Athos sat down on the bed, kneading his forehead. "He was explicit enough this morning."

Ah, yes… Porthos' stomach relaxed. Aramis had said something about… well, about needing to scratch the itch. About how it was a very long time since he'd last seen Madame Couture. Yes, even Porthos could imagine where Aramis was.

Curfew came and went without any sign of Aramis. Athos huffed and grumbled about how typical that was. Porthos had to agree. It was hardly the first time Aramis had spent the night with a woman he shouldn't have been with.

They played a game of chess. For once, Aramis didn't interrupt them with his sighs and complaints about how boring it was to watch them stare at that board for hours. That was nice. Athos took the bed that night. Porthos didn't mind. It was Athos' turn next and since Aramis had decided to abandon them, it was only fair. At any rate, he'd sleep better knowing that he wasn't the one Aramis would flop down on when he finally sauntered back into their room at dawn.

After they'd extinguished the light, Porthos lay in the dark, yearning for the slightest hint of a breeze from the open window, but more than that yearning for Aramis to be next to him. He shouldn't have left him like that. Aramis was right, really. They were soldiers and he was a sniper. Killing people was what they did. Porthos and his stupid soft heart, getting in the way of duty once again. Shooting that man still didn't feel right, but Porthos knew it was his mind that needed to adjust and not Aramis'. That wasn't a poor man; that was an enemy. He'd kill the king, given half a chance. He'd kill the pope for sure. And heaven knew what else they did, those Huguenots. He'd heard all sorts of tales. He should have remembered those before getting so cross with Aramis. But of course he hadn't. He'd pushed him away and left him alone and now Aramis didn't even feel welcome in his own room any more.

"Stop your fretting," came Athos' muffled voice from the bed.

"I'm not—"

"You are. If you weren't, you'd be snoring by now."

"It's just the heat."

Athos sighed. "The heat has never bothered you. Aramis' absence does."

"I shouldn't have said what I did. I…"

"It was his decision to miss curfew, not yours."

"But if I hadn't…" Porthos let the sentence trail off.

He heard Athos shift on the bed. His voice was much clearer when he spoke again. "Has it crossed your mind that he might simply need space?" Athos asked.

It hadn't, of course. These sorts of things never crossed Porthos' mind. He needed his brothers to explain them to him.

"The close quarters and enforced idleness are taking a toll on us all," Athos said. "Aramis, I'd assume, feels this more keenly than most."

Porthos frowned. "He's got more to do than most. He had a kill today. He's very important."

"He's had weeks of this, lying in wait all day for maybe a shot or two. It's taxing work. I may not approve of his choice of distraction, but I do not begrudge him the relief it undoubtedly provides."

Porthos felt twice as bad at that. So not only did he not understand Aramis' duty, he also didn't understand when he needed relief. And he wasn't able to provide any. Madame Couture was. Was better than him, more necessary. Did Aramis struggle with it all? And if he did, why hadn't he said? Or had Porthos not listened?

"Fretting," Athos said. "I believe I told you to stop."

"But what if—"

"What if you slept now and discussed it with him in the morning?"

Porthos breathed out heavily. "You're right," he admitted.

Athos shifted again, getting comfortable once more. "Sleep, Porthos," he said. "He'll be back in the morning."

He wasn't.

Porthos woke at dawn and found Athos in a murderous mood. There was no trace of Aramis.

Athos was already fully dressed. He paced back and forth in their small room like a caged wolf.

"He's a disgrace," he spat.

"He'll be there," Porthos said. "He always is."

It had been a while, but back in Paris it wasn't uncommon at all to have Aramis saunter into the yard at the very last minute, having made full use of the time he had with his mistress.

"If he's not at muster, he'll have hell to pay," Athos growled.

Breakfast was a tense affair. Everyone was giving them a wide berth after the previous night and they had an entire table to themselves. There were mutters all around them, but everyone kept well away from them, maybe because Athos was radiating anger and they all thought it was because of them.

Athos looked like he'd rather run into La Rochelle all on his own than to sit here with the regiment. He didn't speak one single word the whole time they ate, which didn't help Porthos' fretting at all.

Porthos tried to be covert about looking around at all the other tables, trying to spot Aramis. Maybe he didn't want to eat with them and had found better company. Maybe Athos had underestimated just how much space Aramis needed. Maybe him not being there this morning was a sign. Maybe he'd asked Tréville for different lodgings because he couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. The sight of Porthos, more like. Porthos who didn't understand the realities of a siege, of being a musketeer. Aramis had moved rooms before when he'd had enough of Porthos.

Athos finished his gruel in record time and then sat there, his jaws clenched and his hands balled into tight fists.

"He'll be there," Porthos said. Of course he would be. He was still a musketeer even if… No, he wouldn't forget their friendship over this. They'd gone through too much, had grown too close. He'd shout and grumble for a while. They'd fight and then they'd make up, like they always did.

"He better be," Athos pressed out through gritted teeth. "I will not be humiliated like this."

He wasn't there.

Everyone else was, but not Aramis. Tréville arrived and wished them a good morning and still, no sign of Aramis. Athos' face burned with shame. Of course Tréville noticed. Of course everyone else did as well. Once again, there were whispers.

Tréville gave the orders for the day and found some encouraging words for them all. The siege was taking its toll, but everyone else had managed to still show up for duty. Next to Porthos, Athos was standing so stiffly, he vibrated with tension.

After dismissing the men, the captain came over to them. He didn't seem angry, just curious.

"Where's Aramis?" he asked. "Has he been taken unwell?"

"Excuse us while we make some enquiries," Athos said. His voice sounded deadly. Porthos didn't blame him. Making enquiries into the state of Madame Couture's bed was hardly something they should have to do.

"What's the matter?" Tréville asked. "Do you need assistance?"

"We will manage."

By now, Tréville looked worried. "What are you hiding from me?"

"I assure you, Aramis is quite _fine_ ," Athos said pointedly. "I also assure you that he won't be when I find him. I can only apologise for my fellow musketeer's impertinent behaviour."

Tréville frowned. "Bring him back here. I want a full report of this as well as the events of last night."

Athos sucked in a sharp breath, saluted very formally, and marched off. Porthos had to hurry to keep up with him as he strode towards the village and the house of Madame Couture. He hoped that Aramis had said his prayers that morning. He'd need God on his side when Athos found him.

"I'll cut of his cock and stuff it down his throat." Athos' hand twitched towards his sword. "I'm not interested in excuses."

Porthos found it hard to disagree, but he tried. "Maybe someone in the village was ill," he said.

"Then he should have sent a messenger."

Athos hadn't unclenched his jaws since breakfast. Every word was pressed through his teeth

"Maybe he'll be more suited to the life of a choir boy," Athos continued. "We're at war and he cannot keep it in his pants long enough to appear at morning muster."

Porthos had never seen Athos so angry. And he agreed with him. He couldn't believe Aramis would neglect his duty because of some mistress. Heaven help him explain that one away. First to Athos and then to Tréville. Porthos winced. Good luck with that. But Aramis only had himself to blame. Well, himself and the charms of Madame Couture.

"Keep an eye on the back," Athos said when they stopped in front of her cottage. "If he tries to escape…"

He had run out of threats. Instead he shook himself and rapped at the door with so much force that Porthos feared for his knuckles.

"Open up," Athos cried. "Open or we'll break down this door."

They wouldn't need to if he kept hammering like that. Porthos felt eyes on them, curious neighbours peeking from behind curtains.

Finally, the door opened. Athos stepped forward and came face to face with Madame Couture. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up to the elbows and she wore a crisp white apron. She looked like a woman at work and not of the sort of work you did on your back.

"Messieurs," she said. "How may I—"

"Where is he?"

"Where's who?" she asked back, looking confused.

"Don't try this with me." Athos snarled. Panic rose in her eyes as he came closer.

"Where's Aramis?" Porthos asked. "We have no quarrel with you, but he needs to come with us."

"Aramis? But I haven't seen—"

"Don't. Don't you dare lie to the King's musketeers. We know that you have been—"

"Athos," Porthos hissed. "Not here."

Whatever Aramis had or hadn't done to her, they didn't need to get the woman into any more trouble. Not with all the neighbours listening in.

Athos froze. "Apologies, Madame." He bowed. "I forget myself. Would you be able to inform us of our companion's whereabouts?"

Madame Couture looked unsettled by this sudden change and eyed them warily. Porthos didn't blame her.

"Is he in trouble?" she asked. Curse her perceptiveness.

"We merely seek to speak to him." Athos told lies so smoothly they never stood out. "Would you be so kind as to tell us where we might find him?"

She was wringing her hands now, clearly upset. She was no idle woman; her hands were rough with hard labour. Rough hands. Something Aramis couldn't stand. Porthos shook his head. That was hardly relevant now.

"I'm so sorry, Messieurs," Madame Couture said. "I don't know what to tell you. I don't know about Monsieur Aramis."

"But you saw him?"

"Yes, yes, I did. He wanted… sage and some chamomile and… for his medicines, you know."

"When was that?" Porthos asked. His stomach clenched with ugly premonition.

"Last Wednesday," she said. "Wednesday is market day and he wanted to—"

"Thank you for your assistance, Madame," Athos said.

His voice echoed in Porthos' hollow head. Last Wednesday. Last Wednesday and not last night. Last Wednesday and not when… not… Oh God… He vaguely noted that Athos was leading him away from the house. Away from prying eyes because… because Aramis… Oh God…

"Porthos," Athos said urgently. "Focus."

Porthos swallowed and tried to… Aramis… Oh God, oh God, no, please…

"Where is he?" Athos asked.

Porthos stared at him. He'd been so sure. He'd known Aramis was here. He'd have some ridiculous excuse and Athos would shout and Tréville would shake his head and then everything would be fine. And now Aramis wasn't… But he couldn't be… If he was… he'd be with them and he wasn't, so he…

"Has he mentioned another woman?" Athos pressed.

No woman. Of course he wouldn't be with a woman. Not when it interfered with his duty. He'd told Athos what he did at night could never affect him in the morning and he held himself to the same standard. Of course he wasn't with a woman, of course he never had been, of course…

"Porthos, answer me!" Athos barked. "Is there anyone else he could be with?"

Porthos shook his head. He wouldn't. He wouldn't miss muster, not ever. He didn't miss out on… he'd been at morning muster almost as soon as he could stand after Savoy. He wouldn't miss it, not unless… Porthos' stomach clenched painfully.

Athos braced himself against a low wall. "Has he…" His voice caught in his throat. "Would he ever… do you think he would… desert?"

"No."

That wasn't a question Porthos had to think about. He wouldn't. Never. There wasn't a chance in hell that Aramis would even think about… It wasn't who he was and it wasn't… never.

"I have to ask," Athos said. "We're at war. He isn't with the regiment. He isn't here. You don't think he's elsewhere. It's… there aren't many options."

"He would never…" Porthos shook his head. Not Aramis.

Athos sighed. "I know, but… it's not been easy on him and you mentioned you had… that you had a disagreement last night."

"About him following our orders to the letter. Not about… he wouldn't, Athos. Not after Savoy. Not after Marsac…"

Athos shuddered. "Yes, of course. I shouldn't have asked."

Porthos looked at him. "You shouldn't, but…" His voice was barely more than a whisper now. "What's the alternative?"

Athos bit down fiercely on his lip. "He's too badly injured to come home."

The air rushed from Porthos' lungs, Athos' words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

"I left him," he gasped. "I should have waited. I should have been there."

"Porthos," Athos said. "It's no use—"

Porthos doubled over, clutching his stomach in pain. "A cannon ball. They were shooting and I thought… they never hit us. I was just one man, they wouldn't hit me, but he… he was still in that mill. Oh God… Oh God…"

He sank forward until Athos grabbed his arms. "If what you say is true, staying might have cost both of your lives. Don't you dare suggest that would be better."

Their lives… Aramis' life. And he should have been there. No matter what Athos said, he should have been there. He should never have left. He was there with Aramis, for Aramis, and then he left. He abandoned his post, his brother, his friend. He left him alone to… to… No, no, please no.

Athos' fingers dug into his flesh. "We'll look," he said. "We'll send out people to search."

And find… what? Aramis, broken and bruised. Aramis buried alive under the rubble of the mill. Aramis, alone. And what if… if it had been a direct hit then… Bile rose in Porthos' throat.

"Come," Athos said, dragging him upright by his arms. "We need to inform Tréville. We will get the whole regiment together. Question the guards about the events of last night."

Porthos' throat tightened. Last night. The night he left Aramis alone to… to…

"I left him," he whispered.

"And you'll find him," Athos said. "I swear on all of our lives; we will find Aramis."


	19. Kidnapping (2 of 4)

Waking up the next morning, Aramis stretched his sore shoulders. Not an uncommon side-effect of spending days hunched over a musket. The things no one ever told you about the glory of being a sniper. Aramis would definitely not mention that it made him feel older than Methuselah. He groaned when his shoulder blade scraped over the stone floor. Porthos must have pushed him off his bedroll again. That man needed more space to lie down than a horse.

But hold on… why was he on the floor? He could have sworn it was still his turn to sleep on the bed. He was certain of it. Nobody was injured or ill. No reason at all to relegate him to the bedroll, or by the feel of it, the floor of all places.

"Oi," he said, sitting up. Or trying to. Trying and failing to sit up.

Aramis' eyes flew open, sleepy fog clearing from his brain instantly. His hands and feet were bound and this—he blinked his eyes—this wasn't their room at Aytré. Walls that should have been whitewashed were roughly hewn from the rock and the floor was no better. The window through which the early morning light filtered was high up on the far wall and very small. Too small, probably, even if he could manage to remove the two bars. A heavy wooden door opposite blocked the only other exit. Because he would exit. He didn't know where he was or why, but he did know that he had no desire to be wherever he was.

Right. Ties first. He flexed his feet. Fantastic, he was in his socks. He grimaced. Always a glorious escape in nought but your stocking feet. He glanced down and spotted one of his bare toes. He knew he should have mended those socks. But at least the lack of boots gave him more flexibility now. He continued to wriggle. Rough rope bit into his flesh as he tried to stretch. Annoyingly sturdy, not much give at all. He tried again, pulling his feet apart with more force. He stopped quickly, sucking in a sharp breath. They really could have left him his boots. He'd cut himself to the bone trying to break those bonds with nothing more than a bit of yarn to cushion his skin.

Fine. Hands, then. Athos said it was wise to always free one's hands first. Aramis liked to argue the opposite view, mainly because it wound Athos up, but he also wasn't a strong believer in the awkward hobbling escape. Awkward hobbling in his socks. Nothing like it to make him look a proper hero. Anyways. Hands. Not much wriggle room there either. Not cutting off his blood flow, but not giving him an opportunity for escape either. Somebody knew what they were doing. How annoying.

Somebody… which brought him to one rather important question—who had imprisoned him? And why? And, possibly the most interesting question of the lot, how?

As for the "who" there really weren't too many options in the middle of a siege. Besieger or besieged? The Huguenots were the obvious suspects, but they were also currently confined to their city, so how likely they were to imprison anyone was up for debate. Which left the royal forces—unless one wanted to count the English, but there hadn't been any reports of recent landings. Being a part of the royal forces should make it somewhat unlikely that he'd been kidnapped by them, but Aramis had been in the army long enough to know that men did all sorts of things once they got bored. But try as he might, he couldn't think of anyone in particular that he had upset recently. Ah… well… except Porthos. But Porthos got him out of imprisonment, not into it, so that wasn't really an option either.

That argument with Porthos… They'd have to talk about that. He didn't think he was wrong about what he'd said. He was following orders after all; they all were. But he could have said it a bit better, a bit kinder. He knew Porthos felt for the people, no matter which side they were on. It was one of his most endearing qualities and Aramis had meant him no disrespect. They'd have to talk about that. But it would have to wait. First, they had to get him out of captivity.

He tried to twist his wrists and arched his back to get more leverage. All that did was to make his tight shoulders twinge and the rope bite into his skin. He shuffled until he was somewhat comfortable again. As comfortable as he could be on the floor of a room he shouldn't be in.

That argument was the last thing he remembered. Porthos had left and a few minutes later there'd been a cannon shot. Aramis had peered out of the mill's window to make sure Porthos hadn't been hit. Then he'd sat and polished his muskets for a bit until the light got too dim and he figured he'd rather not stray off the path and into the marsh in the dark. And maybe it was late enough to go straight to bed and avoid the tedious discussion of morality they'd want to have. So he'd shouldered his muskets and climbed down the stairs. And then…

Then nothing. Nothing until he woke up here in this… cellar, dungeon, place.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sound of steps. He shuffled side-ways as quickly as he could with his bound limbs, trying to get his back to a wall. Being attacked from all sides when alone and barely able to move was not ideal. He tested his bonds again but didn't have the time to work out how to loosen them. Shame. He preferred to meet his captors with a heavy object to the head or a sword to the throat.

The door opened with a loud screech. Bad news for any clandestine escape that way. Two young men stepped inside. Aramis frowned. They could have hesitated at least a little, anticipating that he might have freed himself and was about to attack. They were either very foolish or very confident in their skill. He prayed it was the former.

"Ah, the hosts of this charming establishment," he said. "If you're after my breakfast order, I'd prefer my eggs with some bacon today."

The taller of the men made to kick him viciously in the shins, which Aramis managed to avoid by jerking his legs upward, earning him a boot to the knee instead. Bright lights flashed in front of his eyes.

"I take it, it's a fast day then," he said, smiling despite the pain. "Please excuse my confusion, I am not intimately familiar with your customs and meant no offence."

They stood and glowered at him, which gave him time to assess the situation. The two were around his age, maybe a little younger, and looked fairly strong, if a bit on the lanky side. Soldiers, perhaps, though neither carried a weapon. Curiously, they also didn't wear any protective garments, just ordinary linen shirts and trousers. Was leather against the Huguenot beliefs? Might explain why they'd stripped him down to his shirtsleeves.

Other than undressing, what did they want? It was an odd situation, captured by the people he had been holding captive for the better part of a year. If that's what this was. If they were Huguenots. He should probably figure that out first.

He smiled at the scowling men. "Now, gentlemen, where might this fine establishment be?" he asked.

They glared at him but said nothing.

"Where are we?" Aramis tried again. Probably better to use small words.

The shorter one snorted. "You know where you are."

Aramis worked hard to keep that smile on his face. "I'm terribly sorry, but I must have missed part of the journey. Or… come to think of it… I might have missed all of it."

"You're in La Rochelle. At least have the decency to acknowledge it."

"Ah." Aramis nodded. "La Rochelle, of course. Now see, I've seen quite a bit of it in recent years, but never once entered the city."

The taller man stomped his feet. "Scum. Shouldn't have brought you here."

Very interesting… so he disagreed. Disagreed with whoever made the decision and with whatever the reason for bringing him here was. Not like Aramis had been begging to be taken away. He'd see the city soon enough, no pressing need for a tour before the siege had ended. It must have been some undertaking to knock him out—Aramis assumed that's what they had done, probably easier than drugging him or any of that—and then drag him all the way back and into the city in the dark. If the ground was treacherous enough to make food thieves brave the dusk, it would be no great joy to carry a man across it at night. They must have had some reason for doing so.

"What's your name?" the shorter man asked.

Ah, questions. That was a good sign. He could do questions. Much better than… well, than them wanting to kill him, which tended to be the other reason he found himself in captivity.

"René d'Herblay," Aramis said without hesitation. They'd have little joy with the name he left behind years ago. "What's yours?"

The only answer was a kick to the gut. Holy Mother of Mercy, that hurt. He curled forward to protect himself from more pain. It was difficult to move with his bound limbs, but he tried to give them as small a target as possible. He had to attempt to prevent any damage. They could hurt him, but he wouldn't let them do anything that would disable him. He had to be fit enough to escape and broken ribs and internal bleeding wouldn't help with that at all.

Too bad the two gaolers didn't share his concern. The taller one grabbed Aramis' hair and dragged him up until he was forced to unfold his legs and get them under himself.

"You don't speak until you're spoken to. We ask the questions here."

Oh, very dramatic. Aramis smirked at him. "You'd better get on with it then."

The man swung him around by his hair and threw him across the room. Porthos might have a point, he should really learn how to hold his tongue on occasion. The man certainly thought so. He pressed Aramis face first against the jagged stone wall. This wasn't doing his fabled complexion any favours.

"So eager to die, little rat?"

Aramis could feel the man's hot breath against his neck.

Die or give answers, which is it going to be? He managed to think and not say that. Porthos would be proud. He wondered, though… Did they expect him to cooperate and beg for mercy before they ultimately killed him? If they did, he had bad news for them. He'd leave before it got to that point. He'd figure something out himself or Porthos and Athos would free him. Whatever these men planned; they wouldn't get to carry it out.

He was roughly turned around, swaying on his bound feet before the back of his head hit the rock. He couldn't quite hide a groan, which elicited a sadistic smile from his captor. Had he been the one to knock him out the night before? Now hitting the same spot a second time, maybe?

The man placed his right hand over Aramis' throat, pressing just hard enough to make it a threat.

"What is your position?" he asked.

"I'm a soldier in King Louis' army."

Both men snarled and the pressure on Aramis' throat increased.

"Are you a sniper?"

Well, they hadn't run into him at that mill by sheer happenstance, so they already knew the answer to that. But Aramis wouldn't sign his own death warrant by admitting it.

"I'm a soldier in King Louis' army," he repeated.

The man squeezed. Aramis felt his fingers dig in. All the different parts in his throat were ground together. Blood pulsed in his ears and he could not breathe. His hands fluttered uselessly in front of his stomach. The men smiled.

"I'll take that as a yes." The shorter man sounded pleased. "How many are there?"

The hand around his throat relaxed slightly and Aramis sucked in a big breath, preparing himself for the next strangulation.

"How many?" the taller man repeated, digging his thumb into the soft flesh under Aramis' ear.

Aramis breathed in again, not wasting the opportunity. A slight tightening of the fingers reminded him to speak.

"There are tens of thousands of us. And a thousand more ready to join for every one of—"

His breath was cut off again. The men didn't say anything, but their smiles never faltered. They swam in and out of focus as Aramis fought to stay conscious. He couldn't live without air and he hoped very much that they realised that, that they knew enough to stop in time.

 _Pater noster, qui es in caelis..._

He prayed silently, giving his mind something to focus on. He couldn't pass out. It was always so inconvenient to try and rescue an unconscious friend. He wouldn't do that to them. His body was telling him to let go, to give in, but he knew he had to stay alert.

 _Sanctificetur nomen tuum;_

 _adveniat regnum tuum…_

Air, blessed air. Aramis sucked it in greedily, clearing the blackness from his eyes and the ringing from his ears. He had been drowning once again, but not any more. They had seen sense, let him breathe, let him live…

"How many snipers?"

Praised be the Lord. Praised be the Lord for their questions. Questions, not death, at least not yet. He needed time, needed to give them time to rescue him. He'd be fine if he could just hold out a little longer. They'd come and get him soon.

"Many," he said. "A rifle trained on every gate, on every man who dares to sneak—"

"That was my cousin, you wretch." The man growled and tightened his grip again.

 _Pater noster, qui es in caelis_

 _sanctificetur nomen tuum;_

 _adveniat regnum tuum_

 _fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra._

 _Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;_

 _et dimitte nobis debita nostra..._

Forgive. Forgive him. Forgive them. Father, forgive. Aramis craved forgiveness. And air. Forgiveness. He had to focus on that. Forgiveness, forgiveness. Forgive him. Forgive them. Forgive, forgive, forgive… Forgive him so much. Forgive them… for this. But forgive him… much more. Leaving them and Porthos… fighting with Porthos… forgive…

The pressure on his throat disappeared. Air, air, air… He vaguely registered that he was flying across the room, landing in a heap on the floor. It hurt, but air… air was precious to him. Air, air… and somewhere in the distance, voices, angry voices. He tried to calm, to regulate his breathing.

 _Pater noster, qui es in caelis…_

He could fall into the familiar rhythm of the Lord's Prayer. Let himself be carried, be anchored by the words like he had been all his life. They felt like coming home, so familiar, so often said, so often heard, so often thought. As long as he had his prayer, he wouldn't break. He wouldn't talk and he wouldn't give, but he would pray.

 _Sanctificetur nomen tuum…_

A kick to the groin left him sputtering. The pain… But he had to focus, had to breathe. Had to stay conscious, had to stay whole… or at least whole enough to still be able to escape. He just needed to last long enough for his friends to arrive. They would take care of the rest. All he had to do was to still be there. Be well enough to be rescued. Not make this difficult for them.

Kicks started to fall hard and fast, a furious storm of hail. He curled in on himself again, protecting his vital organs and ribs as much as he could. He would be here. He would be alive; he would be well.

He changed track. He never seemed to get through the Lord's Prayer anyways. He needed something shorter and he needed something more. He continued to pray, but now he did it out loud.

 _"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum."_

His throat was sore and the words came out raspy, but he knew the Holy Virgin wouldn't mind. The kicks hurt more. His ribs, his back, his legs… they kicked him everywhere. They couldn't reach what was most important though. They couldn't reach his faith, not his faith in God, nor the faith in his friends.

 _"Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus."_

Blessed, blessed, so blessed… Blessed was She and blessed was he to still be here. Blessed was he to know he could endure. So many had tortured him over the years and he always endured. So many had tried to break him and make him speak. It wasn't like these Huguenot minions were the most imaginative. Quite the contrary. He could handle kicks. He could handle this. He could pray himself calm. He could pray himself invincible. They weren't the first to torture him and they wouldn't be the last either.

He couldn't move, couldn't free or even protect himself, but he could do this, he could pray. And he did. As long as he prayed, he hadn't given in. He could show them he was unbroken. He could show himself.

 _"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae."_

Pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. And this wouldn't be his. This wasn't his death. This was him holding out. Holding out to be rescued by his friends. The hour of his death lay far, far away. He would live and they would come and then, then God help those who had sinned against him.

 _"Amen,"_ he shouted after a particularly cruel kick.

"Stop," another voice shouted at the same time. "Halt this madness. Can't you hear that he's a man of faith? Now show some respect."

Silence fell. All three of them stared at the man who had entered the room.

Now the kicks had stopped, pain flooded Aramis' body in waves. It was all-encompassing. He couldn't tell where he was hurt or how badly. He couldn't make out any individual injuries. The immensity overwhelmed him, dragged him down until he could feel his consciousness fray. Pain wasn't bad, but pain that he couldn't comprehend, that he couldn't use as information and guidance, that sort of pain served no purpose. He forced it down and focussed on what the man had said.

Respect. They hadn't shown the slightest regard for the other's religion for a very, very long time. And now, a year into this siege, this guy spoke of respect?

Aramis laughed.

It was surreal. Respect. Respect when his whole body hurt like he was a clump of metal on the anvil. Respect when thousands had died in the name of religion, when they all knew that thousands more would follow. Respect when for years they had killed and hurt and been hurt in return.

He looked up at the man. He was tall and broad, a fine man in early middle age. Old enough to know better. Old enough to have seen more of this war than this siege. Distinguished enough to know better than to talk of some misguided notion of chivalry.

There was no question that he was their leader. He didn't wear any armour, but his clothes were rich, the shirt sporting a fashionable wide collar with fanciful embroidery. But more than that it was his bearing and the reactions of his minions to his presence. They deferred to him, but not in fear. He had what he'd asked them to show Aramis—their respect.

Aramis' laugh caught in his throat and turned into a cough.

He berated himself for his stupidity. They'd been toying with him, but their leader was here now. He'd overestimated the time available to him. His henchman had arrived. It was too late. His execution was imminent. The time for questions and kicks had passed.

He could tell that this man meant business. He wasn't one to while away the day. And the first order of his day was probably going to be Aramis' death. Which Aramis himself was categorically opposed to. He tried to think fast, had to. He had to come up with a way out and one that didn't involve Athos and Porthos coming to his rescue. As much as he hoped they might, he had to acknowledge they were fast running out of time. He better rescue himself before they risked their lives to retrieve his corpse.

The newcomer gave a curt nod and the two men took a few steps back. Their shoes made a hollow clonking sound on the floor. Wooden soles, of course… that explained how painful the kicks had been. Aramis craned his neck, keeping their leader's face within his sights. The man was armed and looked like one who'd know how to wield his blades. Leading by example. A leader like Tréville.

Aramis' assessment was immediately shown to be true when the man knelt next to him and held out his main gauche.

"I shall cut your bonds," he said, his deep voice calm and pleasant. "I will not ask for your word that you won't try to escape but know that there isn't a soul in this town that does not want you dead."

Aramis nodded.

The man smiled, the expression at odds with the hardness in his eyes. "I'm pleased you understand, musketeer."

Musketeer. Aramis sucked in a breath through his teeth. How did he know? Aramis hadn't said, he was certain of that. He'd anchored himself in prayer. He'd made sure he had something to say and it wasn't anything they wanted to hear. He hadn't been far enough gone, not anywhere close to being hurt enough to divulge any secrets. But if he hadn't said, then how did they know?

The blade sliced through the rope around his feet. Aramis wriggled his toes, feeling the blood rush back. Movement hurt, but he needed his mobility back. At his wrist, the steel lingered on his pulse. Aramis could feel the cold seep through the thin skin. It coursed through his body with his blood, the threat of it clear. As his hands were freed, the tip of the dagger nicked the ball of his thumb. A small enough slip to be accidental, but the glint in the man's eyes suggested otherwise.

Aramis stared at the drops of blood beading from the cut. What did it mean? Being a musketeer, a man who was more than likely known personally to the king… did it make him more valuable to his captor, more worthy of being kept alive for questioning? Or did it make him more likely to be handed over to the mob?

The two men glared at him over their leader's shoulder. They wouldn't forgive. Cousin or no, Aramis knew that his actions, as well as his position, made him a target for these men, even more than his allegiance and religion did. He'd shown them he was the enemy, had killed one of their own in front of them. He'd make the ideal scapegoat for their suffering. It would have been much the same, had their roles been reversed.

Their commander held out his hand and pulled Aramis to his feet. He gave the fresh wound a tight squeeze, still smiling pleasantly. Aramis refused to acknowledge the pain, looking calmly back at him. For a moment, the man inclined his head. He was a soldier, it seemed, despite his current attire. Or if not a soldier then certainly one who could see courage in his enemy. They were henchman and prisoner, but not devoid of all respect.


	20. Kidnapping (3 of 4)

_The entire chapter deals with warfare, but there are two particular sections you might want to skip:_  
 _A mention of child death: "In Aramis' ears,… Guiton gave him a tired smile"_  
 _Brief mention of rape: "Guiton's eyes looked straight into the dark recesses of his heart… Aramis reared back as if he'd been shot."_

* * *

"Thank you, Hassard," the man said, rising from a simple wooden chair. "You may leave us. I wish to speak to the gentleman alone."

Aramis blinked. His eyes were slow to adjust to the glaring white light flooding through the tall windows on the opposite wall. It had to be midday now.

Some silent conversation passed between the man and his underling. When he spoke again, a sharp note had crept into his voice. "I am quite capable of handling myself and you won't be far."

The gaoler grunted a reply, clearly not happy, but unable to contradict his commander. Aramis agreed with him, leaving no guards in the room even if they were close by seemed foolish to him. One on one he could take any man. Then again, a fight might create more problems than it solved. The location was wisely chosen. The windows looked out over roofs that were some distance away, perhaps across a square. An escape that way seemed unlikely unless… Aramis scanned the room for anything to aid his flight. The room was bare, all scrubbed floorboards and white walls. A long table stood in the centre and two chairs that barely looked sturdy enough to be suitable weapons. There wasn't even a table cloth.

Suddenly, Aramis was pushed forward. Pain flared in his abused body as he staggered further into the room. Behind him, the door closed with a solid thud. Aramis struggled to catch himself. They had hobbled him like a horse, tying a short rope between his ankles. While he could walk, he couldn't take big steps.

A hand caught his forearm and steadied him. Aramis flinched at the intimacy of the gesture, normal between friends, but not between captor and prisoner. The silence lingered, but Aramis was loath to end it, listening intently for steps in the corridor. Steps that never came. The guard stood right outside the unlocked door, ready to pounce. Whatever Aramis did would have to be done quietly.

He straightened and looked at his captor, putting all his defiance in his glare. The man smiled, his impeccable auburn moustache rising as the slight crinkles around his eyes became more pronounced.

"Be my guest, Monsieur," he said, moving his hand from Aramis' arm to his wrists, undoing the ties around his hands for the second time that day.

Aramis narrowed his eyes. He was a prisoner, not a guest, so why this constant untying? To make him feel safe and let his guard down?

The man smiled. "We are soldiers, you and I. I see no reason to keep you bound like an animal while we talk."

Aramis looked pointedly down at his feet and the length of rope between them.

The man smiled again. "Soldiers, not fools. I realise that your presence at this talk might require some… encouragement."

Aramis snorted. "If you encourage your horses the way your men encouraged me, you'd be lucky to have any left alive."

The man's smile faltered and a shadow passed through his eyes. He caught himself quickly and his voice remained unchanged, but Aramis was content that he had, for a moment, broken through his defences.

The man made a show of how unafraid he was of him, turning his back to Aramis. A few fast steps, two hands around his throat… with some skill and God's aid, he'd be dead before the guard even noticed. But then what? Aramis had no idea where in the city he was, nor any plan for escape. He could untie his feet and using the chairs and table as weapons, he'd overcome the guard who'd brought him in, but not without attracting the attention of whoever else might be out there. They had carefully kept out of sight as he was being led through the corridors and up the stairs, but he knew there would be others. If he lured in one guard, would another take his place? As much as he wanted to, he couldn't overcome the whole city by himself, weak though it was. Better to keep playing along with it for now. See what they wanted since they apparently weren't too keen on executing him on the spot.

"Take a seat, Monsieur d'Herblay," the man said. So he'd been listening from the start, had heard Aramis give his name. Which meant he'd heard him get beaten as well and hadn't stepped in. That much for compassion and respect. Typical Huguenot.

"Who's asking?" Aramis shot back.

"My apologies, Monsieur." The man bowed slightly. "I'm the mayor of La Rochelle, Jean Guiton."

"Jean Guiton," Aramis hissed. His hand flew to his left shoulder, rubbing the dark, round scar through his shirt. "They made you mayor now."

Guiton watched him calmly. "I see, we have met before."

The old musket wound gave an angry throb and Aramis' fingers dug into the muscle to ease the pain. Huguenot bastard.

"The Île de Ré, I suppose," Guiton said. Bastard of a Huguenot admiral. A two-hour battle that got them nowhere, followed by weeks of agony as that wound festered and ate into his flesh.

"It pains me to see you were wounded," Guiton said.

Aramis withdrew his hand from his shoulder. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing his pain. "The very purpose of your aggression against the king!"

"Capable men like you are a credit to whichever side they fight for. I'm sure you too regret having to injure them."

Aramis huffed. It was hardly the only wound he'd suffered in the king's service and many of them at the hand of better men, of god-fearing Catholics. "We got Ré in the end."

"If the Lord deigns this to be the end, it will be." Guiton's unnerving smile returned. "But Cardinal Richelieu keeps such a close eye on Buckingham, it almost seems like he doesn't believe it is."

"It's prudent to monitor every threat, however small," Aramis said. Of course if the rumours could be believed, Buckingham was anything but a small threat. With the English king's favour and the might of his fleet, there was no overestimating the danger Buckingham posed.

"As long as France has no proper fleet, it will always be at the mercy of forces like England, Spain, and even men like myself. The King has to invest in a navy."

Aramis snorted. "I wouldn't be the one to talk to about that." He'd be glad to never get on a ship again in all his life.

Guiton nodded. "Forgive me. I thought a musketeer would have the king's ear."

Was that what this was? Was he being held for his influence? Well… two could play that game.

"A trust I won't break for your benefit," he said.

"Naturally," Guiton said. "I merely wondered where you stood on the matter."

"My personal opinion of ships and naval battles is of no relevance. But a navy to rival England's and Spain's is an ambition for both the King and the Cardinal," Aramis said. "You will forgive me if I do not divulge any details."

Details that he didn't know, if they even existed. This was hardly a matter they would discuss with a soldier, musketeer or not. But if this Huguenot admiral cum mayor wanted him for his knowledge… then Aramis could certainly pretend he had some intelligence.

"Of course," Guiton said. "I would not wish for you to betray the confidence of your liege."

The confidence of a man who wouldn't know him from any other musketeer. Or the confidence of the cardinal who wished all of them to the innermost circle of hell. Guiton could rest assured that Aramis would not share any of their secrets no matter what torture he was forced to endure.

Guiton sat and gestured for Aramis to do the same.

"1622," he said. "Nearly six years this war has occupied our lives. My daughters have grown into young women in this time. And you… for you it must have taken much of your youth."

"A youth spent in the service of one's king is not taken."

"Nor one spent in service of one's God."

Aramis had nothing to say to that. He'd tried to dedicate himself to God and instead found he was much better at dispatching souls to hell. These Huguenots, however misguided, thought they'd found a way to combine the two.

Guiton didn't need a response. He nodded. "We've both been in this war too long."

Aramis smiled grimly. Saumur, Saint-Jean-d'Angély, then Montauban, the first siege they didn't win. On to Royan and the horror of Nègrepelisse. Up and down the country in service to his king, and then the peace they had signed with so much blood hadn't even lasted the decade.

A soft knock at the door made him tense.

"I hoped you might join me for lunch," Guiton said.

A young girl entered bearing a tray. She had the same dark red hair as the mayor and Aramis thought he saw a family resemblance. One of his daughters, maybe. He thanked her as she sat down a bowl and cup in front of him, but she didn't look up. It had been too long since he'd made a pretty maid blush, but now did not seem the appropriate time. The girl left and Aramis couldn't shake a feeling of loneliness. Soon it was just him and Guiton again, alone in this bare, faded room, not a sound to be heard.

Guiton said grace and Aramis respectfully bowed his head. He meant to say his own prayer, but realised the mayor found much the same words he would have liked to use, so he merely echoed the _Amen._ Some things, it seemed, were not so different.

Guiton obliged him with a smile, eating from both bowls and drinking from both glasses before Aramis was satisfied he wasn't about to get poisoned. The food was as bland and colourless as their surroundings, but having missed both dinner and breakfast, Aramis' stomach growled in appreciation.

"So, Monsieur d'Herblay," Guiton said. "Tell me about the musketeers."

Aramis took his time, rinsing his mouth with water while he contemplated his answer. Clearly, Guiton wanted information. The skill lay in making him believe he got what he wanted while not giving anything away. He couldn't seem too eager either.

"The king raised the regiment in 1622. Due to some of my earlier engagements, I had the good fortune to be among the first to join." Engagements that mainly involved killing Huguenots, though mentioning that would probably ruin the pleasant atmosphere.

Guiton looked at him eagerly. "Then you are a senior officer?"

Aramis swirled the water in his glass as if it were expensive wine. He wasn't even a junior officer, but saying so would hardly make him seem like a good source of information. "The captain selected me himself," he said instead. "The regiment is of course the king's personal guard."

"You must keep busy during this siege," Guiton said, seemingly focussed on his meal. If he thought he could catch Aramis off guard, he was sorely mistaken.

"As ever, our duty is to the king," Aramis said. "We protect him wherever he goes. His majesty's trust is a great honour."

"Though of course it is the cardinal who leads the siege."

Ah, didn't they all wish that weren't true? Probably too late to deny it, though. At this point there probably wasn't a soul left in all of Christendom who didn't know about Richelieu the warrior, the real supreme commander in this whole affair.

"A few loyal subjects are fortunate to be advisors to the king," Aramis said, trying to be diplomatic. "My captain among them. I am honoured to accompany him at times."

He lowered his gaze to the plate but watched the mayor through his lashes. He looked pleased. Influence mattered to him, so Aramis saw no need to mention that the circumstances under which he accompanies Tréville were very limited indeed and usually more punishment than distinction.

"Cardinal Richelieu is a man of God, but not a man of the sword," he continued. "Tréville and I can provide insights from the perspective of the soldier."

That the king usually ignored and Richelieu tried his best to discredit, but Guiton didn't need to know that either.

"You must be in quite a privileged position yourself," the mayor pressed. "An officer of the musketeers…"

Aramis allowed himself a shy smile. "I aim to serve my king well." He fidgeted a little. Porthos would laugh at the false display of modesty. Athos would roll his eyes. But this man didn't know him like they did. "I was very fortunate," Aramis said. "The Lord guided my hand in saving King Louis' life some months ago."

He tried to pitch his behaviour somewhere between devoted soldier and demure maiden. Guiton shouldn't think he was boasting, but if it was influence he wanted, Aramis would deliver.

"He must be very thankful," Guiton said. The fish had swallowed the bait.

"His Majesty values chivalry among all else. He recognises that this is a trait we share." Aramis looked into the distance as if reminiscing. The windows were unlatched, but definitely too high up. "He deems it appropriate to raise me to the order of the Holy—" He shook himself. "You must forgive me, I get too caught up in these tales."

"Fascinating," Guiton said. There was a new glint in his eyes as he examined Aramis. "I must admit I had not heard of your family until today, Monsieur d'Herblay."

He certainly wouldn't find it when looking at the books of those eligible for the Order of the Holy Spirit. In his heart, his family were the noblest in the land, but nobody else knew of them.

"We prefer to serve unseen." Aramis tried his best to sound like an enigma, but a very powerful one. If influence over the king was his ticket to a longer life, he could certainly promise that. Best not to dwell on the details, though.

"Like a sniper in the dark," Guiton said. Aramis did his best not to flinch. The impossible shot the night before… the scrawny young men it killed… He had probably been the mayor's cousin, too.

Aramis focused on his meal again. The thin strips of meat were chewy and rather tasteless.

"My compliments to the cook," he said, nonetheless.

"Our thanks to you for providing the meat."

The meat? Aramis stared at the mayor. While his whole body hurt, he was reasonably sure he would have noticed if he'd been eating his own arm or maybe his left buttock.

Guiton smiled. Really quite unnerving, particularly in matters of cannibalism. Surely, not even the Huguenots condoned that.

"You will have noticed," Guiton said, examining a piece of meat on his spoon. "That this meat doesn't quite taste like anything you've had before."

Well, no. It wouldn't if it was freshly cooked musketeer. Aramis wriggled his toes just to make sure he still had all ten. They dutifully caught in the holes of his socks.

"You see," Guiton continued. "As a matter of fact, it _is_ something you have had for a long time, just never in quite the same way."

He took a bite, savouring it like a man who tasted ambrosia.

"We have found that leather makes an excellent substitute for meat. But none has been as fine as this prime cut—your pauldron."

"My—" Aramis sputtered and let a half-chewed piece of meat or leather, rather, drop back onto his plate. "What on earth…"

He stared at the dish. Despite not eating for nearly a full day, his appetite vanished. Eating leather. That explained the lack of boots. The thought made him gag.

"Cooked properly, it is, as you have seen, much like meat," Guiton said.

Much like… but… His pauldron. The second one he'd lost that year. Wouldn't Tréville just love that? My apologies, captain, I've eaten it.

"My eldest daughter has become quite adept at cooking it," Guiton said.

Of course, the siege, the lack of supplies. That was the point of it all. Starve them out.

"She'll cook it fricassee-style with a bit of tallow and water," the mayor continued. "Or make jams out of it with some sugar."

The most disgusting thing Aramis had ever heard and he'd had detailed conversations about gangrenous wounds.

"Why don't you eat cats and dogs like normal people?" he asked. The respectable thing that people under siege had done throughout history. But apparently that wasn't good enough for filthy Huguenots.

Guiton smiled. "If you believe any of them lasted the winter, you overestimate the number of animals in this town."

"But there are ways to…" To survive, to… Porthos had told him. The things he ate growing up...

Guiton nodded. "This was hardly our first choice. As mayor I should be proud of the new cleanliness of La Rochelle. I have not seen a mouse in months."

"The rats leaving the sinking ship," Aramis said before he could stop himself.

"I'm happy to report we did not let a single one leave," Guiton said. "And fortunately I know a thing or two about ships."

"Maybe you should have stuck to those." Maybe he was a good admiral, but this… this was beyond his skill to steer.

Guiton did not look upset with him. "We all do our duty."

Aramis jumped up to pace the room. The rope between his feet tripped him up and he stumbled, then shortened his strides.

"How many have died?"

"The old, the young…"

Guiton did not finish the sentence. He stared out the window instead. The infants and elderly were expected to die, but in the lingering silence Aramis heard about the others. He stopped and turned to face the man. Guiton kept himself very straight, his face carefully blank, but Aramis was struck by how tired he looked.

"This is madness," he said. "Eating leather, people dying. As a mayor, a father, a man… You've got to end this!"

Guiton raised an eyebrow. "As a soldier in the royal army, surely you don't mind death."

Death, death, death… Aramis braced himself on the window ledge and stared out into the glaring midday sun to clear the unbidden images from his brain. Bright light to chase away the night and heat to melt the ice. He clenched his teeth.

"I do mind."

Guiton stood and strode over to the window.

"Even the deaths of Huguenots?"

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. Yes, they were here to starve them out, to kill them, to end this impertinence, this uprising. Duty. Duty to the king and to God. They all did their part. Deaths of Huguenots were the goal. All their weapons and yet the deadliest was the one they didn't wield. Hunger.

"We are all God's children," he said, hoping the tears did not show in his eyes.

 _You and your soft heart. It'll be the end of you one day._

They looked out over the city. Its colours had faded like those of threadbare clothing after too many washes. The window overlooked a square, but no market took place, no merchant offered his wares, no housewives haggled for produce. Usually, whenever there was hunger there were those savvy enough to exploit it. One bad harvest and prices in Paris rose like fireworks. In La Rochelle, nothing moved. There wasn't anything to be bought or sold.

They watched a woman trudge across the square to the fountain, her steps unsteady and slow like an old crone's. And yet her hair was dark and her back straight. She was young. They watched her clutch the fountain for support, then drink greedily.

In Aramis' ears, Porthos' voice told him that water could fill the stomach for a while and take away the worst of the pain.

"She's lost three children already," Guiton said. "Lord have mercy with us all."

Aramis' fingers turned to claws on the window ledge until he could feel the soft wood give under his nails.

"Why don't you show her some?" he asked. In his mind, Athos admonished him to watch his tongue, but Aramis didn't care. To watch a woman, young and beautiful before the hunger, struggle and stumble like this, to let her bury her children… For what?

"Wish it were in my hands to give life to my people," Guiton said.

"You dole out death instead." The little Athos in his mind grimaced and told him he shouldn't aggravate the one man who could stay his execution. Aramis pushed on regardless. "You have to end this siege. Surrender! For her sake if not for your own."

Guiton gave him a tired smile. He too looked decades older than his years. What would the consequences be? Could their fate still be averted? If any of them survived, what would their bodies be like a year or ten from now?

"I cannot surrender."

"You can. The king… Just say the word." Oh God, help this man see sense. "Your people are dying. You have to. Please."

Guiton shook his head. "I don't think you would be willing to give up your own religion like that."

"What does this have to do with—" Aramis stopped himself. Everything, of course. When the last great Huguenot stronghold fell, their special rights would disappear, their religion would wither and… was that a bad thing?

"I heard you in the cellar," Guiton said. "Your fervent prayer."

Aramis stood up straighter, ignoring the aches and pains in his body. His prayers had seen him through much worse than this.

"You believe," Guiton said.

"Of course, I do."

"You really do. Your life, your strength is built on God. It's the same for me."

"But that doesn't mean—"

Guiton stopped him with a raised hand. "Think carefully now," he warned. "You prayed, loudly and in Latin, when you knew you were captured by Protestants and helpless in their hands. You risked them taking offence and killing you for the comfort you found in those familiar words."

He hadn't thought that much. He had prayed like he always did because yes, it was a comfort to him. A way to shut the pain away and focus on… well, on the ritual. The mayor seemed to take his silence for assent.

"Your religion means a lot to you," he said. "As mine does to me."

Aramis wanted to protest, wanted to say that his religion was right and the true path to enlightenment where Guiton's was an abomination, but somehow it was irrelevant. There was a wider argument at play.

"But is religion worth more than life itself?"

"You tell me. Your actions this morning seem to suggest it is."

Did they? He was a soldier. Damn it, he knew that some things were more important than life. His life, the lives of his brothers, of all the regiment. Some things were worth dying for. He looked down at the square, the fountain where the young woman had stood. Was this one of those things?

"Despite my prayers, I didn't expect you to let me live," Aramis said.

"Do you think I expect the king to let us live?" Guiton asked.

Well… yes. Generally, that would be expected of a leader. And yet… Aramis bit down on his lip. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Let me show you something," Guiton said, beckoning for Aramis to follow.

The soldier, Hassard, was still outside the door, but once again Aramis didn't see anyone else as the mayor guided him through the corridors. Still, he was certain the walls and doors and dark corners had eyes and quite possibly weapons trained on him. His life was cheap in La Rochelle.

Guiton pushed open a tall door between a pair of imposing old portraits. The room beyond lay in darkness. As Aramis' eyes adjusted, he could make out walls paneled with dark wood. Behind him, the heavy door thudded shut. The floor was the same nearly-black wood and in the centre of the room stood a large table surrounded by heavy chairs upholstered in deepest crimson. A grand old room displaying the riches of the port.

The mayor drew one of the long curtains. Blood-red brocade slid back and blinding light rushed in. Dust danced in the air. With the sun in his back, Guiton's hair glowed like fire. But Aramis' eyes were drawn to a glimmer on the table. The huge oval of polished wood was marred by a glinting dagger thrust deep into its heart.

Aramis was drawn to it as if by invisible reins. He stretched out his hand, but let it hover awkwardly. The handle was gilded, the workmanship striking. A fine weapon. Not a ceremonial weapon either if the slight marks and notches were anything to go by. Well cared for, but also well used. And currently half embedded into what looked like the city's council table.

"I told them I would be mayor if they really wanted me to," Guiton said. "But behold this knife."

He stroked the coat of arms on the pommel, his hand so close that Aramis could almost feel the crackle of invisible lightning between them.

"I swore I would stick it in the heart of the first one who talked of surrender and asked to be stabbed likewise if I should ever propose to capitulate."

"Not ever?"

"The King of England could be mediator between our two sides. I would accept is intercession."

Aramis shook his head. "Richelieu would never allow it."

"King Louis could meet him as an equal," Guiton insisted.

"Never."

"We need somebody to speak for us." Guiton kept staring at the dagger in the table, his face unreadable. Regret? Determination? A desperate plea? Aramis couldn't tell.

"Why?" he asked.

Guiton smiled bitterly. "What is one city against a kingdom?"

Aramis raised his eyebrows. "A rather lengthy inconvenience, if you ask me."

The hint of hurt in the other man's eye made him regret his flippant tone.

"Why negotiate if you won't surrender?" he asked more kindly.

The mayor traced his fingers slowly along the hilt of the dagger. Whose heart would he most like to pierce with it?

"Not unconditionally," he said so softly Aramis could barely hear.

"Conditions?" Aramis snorted. What conditions did they want? Did they want a reward for their revolt? An extension of their religious freedom? Was that worth so much?

"You must understand." For the first time, Guiton sounded pleading. "I have five daughters."

And Aramis had a mother and sisters he cared about. And he would never… he would not watch them die for some illusion. Not even for the truth, the religion he and they lived and breathed.

"And you sacrifice them in this life for glory in the next?" he asked. "You let your daughters starve and lead them to certain death because you cannot swallow your pride? What sort of father are you?"

Guiton's hand tightened on the dagger. Fine, then. He could give Aramis an excuse. He'd be easily disarmed. Easily killed. And maybe killing the lunatic would be better for all concerned. Aramis couldn't believe that he had been drawn in by that man and almost convinced to show sympathy for his plight. A father who would sacrifice his children on the altar of his vanity.

"Starvation rather than…" Guiton's voice broke. He took a moment to compose himself. "What if we surrendered without condition? What would happen? You start killing here and then? A second Saint-Barthélemy?"

Aramis frowned at the mention of that bloody day so many years ago. "There wouldn't be a massacre," he said with more certainty than he felt. Hadn't he only just thought of killing this man?

Guiton looked up at him, his eyes overflowing. "Saint-Barthélemy started with only a handful of my brethren that King Charles ordered dead and then it spread, around Paris and the whole of France, leaving tens of thousands dead."

"It would not be—"

"There are tens of thousands dying here today," Guiton said. "If La Rochelle falls… We're the last bastion between those of our faith and the next massacre. How many dead then? How many Huguenots left in France? Would you slaughter us all?"

"Nobody wants to…" Aramis couldn't finish the lie. Nobody? Really? He wasn't the only one who'd lost people in these wars. Not the only one who'd spent years of his life killing Huguenots. The last one less than a day ago. A young man whose face or name he'd never know, one more unremembered soul on his endless tally.

Guiton's eyes looked straight into the dark recesses of his heart.

"I would rather let them starve than to see my girls and all the women raped and every last person, man, woman, and child, brutally murdered. La Rochelle will not be a second Nègrepelisse."

Aramis reared back as if he'd been shot. He was overcome by a sudden nausea, the mention of that name making his stomach clench and coil. The acrid smoke scorching his throat, the screams of those unfortunates, the cobbled streets slick with blood… He tried not to think, to force all this back into the horrid pit it had lain in for all these years.

"These animals you ride with," said Guiton. "Is that what you would have me succumb to? Is that what your priests teach from their pulpits? Is that the creed of the cardinal?"


	21. Kidnapping (4 of 4)

_The 3rd paragraph mentions Nègrepelisse, a historic siege/massacre/mass rape. If you want to avoid it entirely, skip the first part of this chapter and start reading at "He needed to ask Porthos about what was right"._

* * *

Aramis needed help.

He was back in the dungeon, trussed up like fowl, and this time he knew he was going to die. Which wasn't really why he needed help. This was hardly unexpected. He didn't blame the Huguenots. He had as good as admitted that he'd been at Nègrepelisse and he knew Guiton had read his reaction for what it was. No point denying it.

Eight hundred bodies. He'd seen… he could still smell… he remembered the flies and the… the ground saturated with blood. At least it had been silent then. Before that… These animals. He hadn't done it. He hadn't raped and pillaged along with them. But nobody would believe that. He didn't ask them to. He hadn't done anything to stop it either. He'd followed orders. If death was to follow those actions, he could have no complaints.

But he wasn't fighting it. And that, that was a problem.

They'd made light work of him. Had him bundled up before his mind had returned from the horror of Nègrepelisse. He'd let them do it. Let them drag him downstairs and dump him in the corner. He didn't know how long he'd been back, and he couldn't say he cared all that much either. The clock was ticking now, down, down, down to his death and he didn't even mind.

That's what he needed help with.

 _I command you to give no quarter to any man, because they have irritated me._

He could still hear these words, the words of his king at Nègrepelisse. And Aramis, the loyal soldier, he followed them. As was his duty. He needed Athos to speak to him about duty. About orders followed and deeds done and the honour that lay in that. Decisions that weren't yours to make, that were made for you by king, country, and convention. He needed to hear that he was still a man. A man of duty and honour. A man who'd done the right thing even thought it felt so wrong.

He needed to ask Porthos about what was right. He needed his compassion and his care. He needed to hear that he was still a good man despite all that he'd seen. That this wasn't all there was to him, that he was still worth something.

He needed his friends.

None of them were afraid of death going into a fight. That fear wasn't helpful in their line of work. But when someone wanted to kill them, they didn't just let it happen. They fought and they ran and they did… something.

Aramis didn't.

He lay there and waited for Guiton to return and drag him out of his hole to his own execution. And that wasn't right. He didn't deserve to be executed. But did the people of La Rochelle deserve this? Had the people of Nègrepelisse? La Rochelle, the starving city with the rich history, the lavish council chamber with the dagger stuck in the table. And somewhere five girls, all beautiful in his mind's eye and with flaming red hair like their father's. Starvation or murder, which one did they deserve?

His stomach growled, startling him from his thoughts. Like he had any right to be hungry. How quaint, the want to eat every day. By all accounts he'd been lucky, being treated to a feast made of his own pauldron. He chuckled. That damn pauldron. It hadn't been anything special. A cheap replacement, but still… it had been a sign of what he was, who he was. Another honour he had lost. The second one in a year and once again he needed rescuing. He needed Porthos. He hated risking Porthos' life once again, but he needed him. He had no other hope. No. Nonsense. He needed to stop this. For his friends' sake, if not his own.

He turned to his other hope and comfort then. This was about religion after all.

 _Ave Maria, gratia plena…_

Why should Mary pray for him? What had he done to deserve Her intercession? A sinner he was, and quite possibly near the hour of his death, but he wasn't the only one and hardly the most deserving. Those five girls, the Holy Virgin would pray for them, not him.

He abandoned this prayer. Tried his luck with another.

 _Pater noster, qui es in caelis..._

Father in heaven, but where was He on this earth? Where was He here in La Rochelle, where men, women, and children were starving to avoid a worse fate? Where was He in the minds and hearts of His own chosen leaders who could end all this if they wanted?

Aramis screwed up his eyes to combat the building headache. Too much thinking or too little nourishment? Or maybe a lingering head injury? He'd never had a chance to assess his wounds. Nothing felt badly hurt, but they had hit him over the head. While he'd been fine to move about all day, he knew that not all concussions were immediately apparent.

Maybe the pain was merely God's reminder of his wisdom and omnipotence.

 _Oh the depth of the riches of the wisdom and of the knowledge of God… How incomprehensible are his judgments, and how unsearchable his ways…_ How truly and utterly unsearchable indeed. This was about God after all, about religion.

He needed to pray. He needed to ground himself and calm his feverish mind. Images flitted in front of his eyes. The dagger and Guiton's tired eyes. The meagre leather soup. The young woman by the fountain. The five daughters he hadn't even seen. All that death in the name of religion.

He needed to find his way back. He always did, even under the most severe torture. He always forced the thoughts and memories away. He could do it now. He could pray. Pray for affirmation.

 _Credo in Deum —_ oh yes, he believed, he knew he still did.

 _Patrem omnipotentem —_ what sort of father are you?

 _Creatorem caeli et terrae —_ creating heaven and earth and sometimes hell on earth.

He prayed and argued his way through most of the Apostle's creed.

 _Credo in Spiritum Sanctum —_ but where was the Holy Spirit now?

 _Sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam —_ and how holy was the church it its actions?

 _Sanctorum communionem —_ what a bunch of saints they were, Richelieu most of all.

 _Remissionem peccatorum —_ there sure were a lot of sins to forgive.

 _Carnis resurrectionem —_ and so many bodies to resurrects.

 _Vitam aeternam —_ no hope for this life any more, so shuffle off this mortal coil and hope for the next.

 _Amen._

He didn't realise he'd been praying out loud until the final word reverberated around the empty room, mocking him with whispered echoes.

"Amen," said a voice that wasn't his. Guiton. Back to fetch him. To execute him. And Aramis knew that he should care. He did, in a way. He had friends to see, a family to reunite with. He didn't want to die. He'd been there and he'd left that behind long ago. But…

"Seems my prayers aren't being answered," he said, trying to sound detached and superior. He wasn't sure it worked.

"That shall depend," Guiton said. "Were you mainly praying for the forgiveness of sins or the resurrection of the body?"

It was odd to hear the words said out loud. Of course he didn't necessarily think in Latin, not even when it came to bible verses, but there was a difference between thoughts and hearing the actual words said in a language that wasn't the church's. Normal for a Huguenot, though. And somewhat more palatable than the other things that were normal for them. He tried the words out in his mind. _Carnis resurrectionem. The resurrection of the body._ Interesting. Not bad, just different.

"One cannot happen without the other," he said.

"One has to happen first," Guiton replied.

"Public execution then?" Aramis asked. "Give them games if you cannot give them bread?"

" _Panem et circenses,"_ Guiton said. So he did speak Latin then, but not for religious matters. Wouldn't want to twist his tongue for God.

"So what will it be?" Aramis asked. "Better make it worth my time. I only want the best. Got to disappoint you though. Whatever you come up with, I won't blab. And yes, you may take that as a challenge."

He couldn't quite see Guiton's face in the dim light of his candle, but his next words sounded like he was smiling. The bastard.

"I don't need any more from you," Guiton said. Oh, bastard indeed. That was insulting!

"Are you sure?" he asked. Porthos would probably tell him that annoying his executioner wasn't a good idea, but really what did it matter now? Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.

"You have given me all you can for now."

Aramis snorted. "I'm a musketeer." Maybe he didn't know as much about the siege and their strategy as he'd made out he did, but he did know some things. It was insulting that that embarrassment of a mayor didn't even try.

"And even your fighting prowess would make no difference to our plight."

Aramis bristled at the implication. "I would never fight on your side. I'm no turncoat."

Guiton nodded. "You're not."

He said it like that was a positive. A positive for him and not Aramis. This man was odd. He hadn't seemed so by the light of day, but now… Aramis couldn't read him at all.

"You know there will be revenge for this."

"Will that change our fate at all?" Guiton asked, sounding genuinely curious, like it was a normal conversation to be talking about their respective deaths and those of his family.

"My friends will…" What actually? He realised that he had nothing to threaten this man with. He already knew he was going to die. He'd already picked the death he preferred. How could anyone gain leverage over that?

"Your friends, yes, that reminds me…" Guiton kneeled next to him and heavens, what was it with that man and daggers? He held the blade close to Aramis' stomach. Aramis tried to arch away, to avoid injury somehow, but once again he was tied up very well. Sailors, the whole lot of them. Sailors were good with knots. If he hadn't been about to die, he might have asked for lessons.

The blade sliced through his shirt and soon he found himself gagged with absolutely disgustingly filthy fabric. When _had_ he last washed that thing? He retched, tried to suppress it, tried to breathe through his nose. Truly no more talking, it seemed.

"Not a sound," Guiton said. Didn't he even want to hear him cry? Usually, torturers were keen on the noise. Wanted to enjoy the fruits of their labour.

Another flash of the dagger. "And don't even try to run."

The ties around his feet loosened.

He wriggled his toes and tried to rotate his ankles to hasten the blood back to his extremities. His right foot seized up with a cramp and he groaned into the gag. His body was as unwilling to run as his mind. Guiton left him hobbled, nonetheless. From fowl to cattle, how splendid.

"Get up."

Guiton dragged him upright, but when Aramis teetered, he kept a steadying hand on his shoulder. What was this man playing at? Friend or enemy? Enemy, of course, they were at war, they were out to kill each other. Maybe he was playing at being nice because he knew he had the upper hand. Go and execute him and be all benevolent and kind. It didn't feel like pretence though.

Aramis tested the limits of his bonds. Tighter than before. He could move, but only in a slow shuffle. A slow, humiliating shuffle. Sure, make him look like some broken prisoner. He held his head high, wincing only slightly when all those bruises screamed in protest. He would not be bowed. He'd face the noose or whatever else they'd come up with with dignity. He wasn't broken.

He shook his arms as much as those ropes would allow and bounced on his feet. Get the blood flowing, his heart pumping. Wake his brain up from the nightmare of his thoughts. He was ready. Ready to face whatever was coming. A baying crowd. He wouldn't give them a spectacle. He'd be poised and calm and if they rid him of this gag, he'd pray and throw his Latin in their faces. Heathens. He'd show them how to face death as a true man of god, knowing he'd be welcomed by his benevolent Lord.

"Will you be able to walk?"

Aramis gave him a brusque nod and tried to snarl around the cloth between his teeth. He didn't need sympathy from his own personal devil.

There were no guards. The corridor was dimly lit by torches in their brackets and once again there was no one in sight. At least the torches were flattering. Not just one torch but light the whole way. Like they did expect him to run and wanted to be able to see.

He wished for guards though. He knew what to do with guards. He wanted to see more men. He wanted to fight them. Let him fight for his life. _Panem et circenses._ Let it be real, let him entertain the crowds, let him kill their local champions one by one until, finally, he was overrun and collapsed bleeding onto the dusty ground like a gladiator of old. And even as the thumbs pointed down, the women would weep and the men sigh for the great fallen warrior, acknowledging his might even in defeat.

That was the way to go. Not this, staring at his own bare toes through the widening holes in his socks.

But this was what he was stuck with. A silent man leading him slowly through winding corridors, offering him a hand so he wouldn't stumble on the stairs. One man, older than him and weaker, but utterly unafraid.

How? How was he so calm? His city was dying, his family starving, and his only ally hadn't made an attempt at relief for months. He had the deadliest sharpshooter, an elite soldier of his enemy's personal guard in his hands and he acted like he was entirely at peace with all that.

Aramis didn't understand. He couldn't fight a man like that.

Another door and they stepped out into the silent night. A light, salty breeze was blowing from the sea, but other than that there wasn't a sound. Aramis fidgeted. He'd expected… something. Someone. But once again he was greeted by nothing and nobody.

Guiton lead him through deserted streets. At every corner there was a gaunt man, watching for fire or attack. Each of them nodded a mute greeting and let them pass unchallenged. A soldier saw them approach the wall and descended to meet them at its foot.

"Still there?" the mayor asked.

The soldier nodded. "Making for the postern gate."

"As we thought." Guiton briefly grasped the soldier's shoulder. "Good man. Let us see."

Aramis was awkward on the stairs, his legs tied too tight to master the steps with ease. Nobody rushed him, the soldier showing as much patience as Guiton. Were they waiting for something? Was there something on that wall that would offer good sport to them? Whatever made them happy couldn't be good news for him.

On top of the wall, nothing stood out as unusual. Soldiers posted at regular intervals, no more or less than Aramis would have expected. Appropriate arms as well; there seemed no shortage of those.

They stopped and stared out into the night. Guiton directed Aramis' gaze down to the foot of the wall and a little further along. A parallel, lower wall shieled a sally port in the main rampart. It was well-planned, making the small gate difficult to reach and impossible to fire at from a distance. But they hadn't brought him here to inspect their fortifications.

He tried to look at Guiton, to read his face for any explanation. A hand at the back of his neck made him turn towards the vast dark marshland.

"Look," the mayor breathed into his ear, angling his head down.

Aramis stared into the night. Clouds flitted across the moon, making shadows vanish and appear. What was he looking at?

His breath caught in his throat when one of the shadows moved and then another. Only a brief moment before they disappeared again, lying flat on the ground or crouched behind some shrubbery. Within a few breaths, it happened again. A flurry of movement, then nothing. Shadows too large and too strategic to be stray animals.

Aramis heart beat like a blacksmith's hammer.

He knew that shadow there. The size, the movement. He'd come. And where Porthos was, Athos was as well. His whole body cramped, and this time it didn't come from the bruises, from the outside, it started from the inside, from his heart.

He didn't notice he was being led back down the stairs until the ground gave way under his feet and a soldier caught him, yanking him back before he fell.

"Careful." Guiton looked at him with something like worry creasing his face. Worry for him? Surely not. Worry about his friends? They were hardly an army. Aramis had no idea what their hare-brained plan was, but he doubted it would do any serious harm to the city. And if Guiton was worried about their little attack, well, his men had certainly spotted them. They could shoot them just as easily from the safety of their high wall. The thought made him shudder. Hare-brained and hunted like hares as well.

"Well, then," said Guiton.

Somewhere in those two syllables, Aramis understood his plan. As they fumbled to remove his gag, it all fell into place. His mouth was dry and he swallowed several times to get rid of the stale taste and reawaken his tongue.

"No." His voice was a sharp hiss in the near-silent night. "I won't make up for your inadequate skills. I won't shoot my friends."

The bastard blinked innocently at his fierce response. "But—"

"I'm not yours to command." Aramis spat the words in his face, rushing forward with the stumbling steps his bonds allowed. "Go ahead and kill me. I won't barter their lives for mine."

Guiton held up his hands but did not push him back. "Peace, Monsieur d'Herblay."

"Peace," Aramis hissed. The only peace he'd find was death.

"I mean your friends no ill."

"They aren't a threat to you. You've got me. Keep me and do to me what you want, but you won't have them."

Guiton shook his head. "What use is one dead soldier to me? What use are three or ten or even a hundred? The many-headed hydra doesn't sleep."

Aramis snorted at being compared to some heathen monster. "Why kidnap me, then?"

Why if not to turn him into the murderer of his own? To make him an instrument of their sick faith, to make him sympathetic to their plight, to watch him beg them for forgiveness, to make him see some new Calvary in their suffering.

A smile ghosted across Guiton's face.

"The opportunity presented itself. It isn't every day that I get to dine with a musketeer."

"And try to force him to kill others."

Guiton shook his head. "That was never my intention."

He beckoned another soldier closer. Aramis reply died in his throat when he saw what the man carried. His accursed, half-eaten pauldron.

"You forgive us our charades," Guiton said.

When the soldier turned it in his hands, it wasn't half-eaten at all. It was whole and as smooth as it had ever been, gleaming in the light of a torch. Aramis was dimly aware that his eyes had gone wide as cannon balls. He swallowed down his surprised sound with some effort as the mayor took the pauldron into his own hands and began to strap it to Aramis' shoulder.

It felt like a home-coming, the weight back on Aramis' body where it belonged. He breathed a little freer, as the mayor struggled to fasten the buckles despite Aramis' tightly bound hands.

"What's this?" Aramis asked. "Are you dressing me up like a lamb for slaughter?"

"We wish you no harm."

Aramis struggled against the rope. He felt like he had regained his spirit with that peace of leather.

"We're freeing you, so you may join your friends."

Aramis ceased his struggle. "But… why?"

"You are a man of God and your religion. A man of principle. No matter how long I keep you here, I shall not be able to convert you to our cause."

"But… you're letting me go?" Aramis tried to find the catch in this proposition. They'd let him go and then what? Shoot his friends along with him?

"Because you listened." Guiton sighed. "You return straight to the royal camp. Any attempt to attack or to enter the city will be dealt with accordingly. Do not expect leniency."

Aramis tongue was too dry, big, and awkward in his mouth to make a reply. What was there to say? Any thanks he gave would be hollow and tinged with fear that he was walking into an invisible trap. Listening. That was no reason to let him go. He wriggled his shoulder as much as he could and tried to glance sideways at his pauldron. Guiton caught his movement and reached out to trace the outline of the fleur-de-lis.

"I cannot guarantee your safety beyond these walls but this may grant you some protection from your own men." His fingers lingered on the leather, that prime cut.

"Don't you... need it?" Aramis asked. To feed yourself. To keep your children alive. To do all the things mentioned and implied in their earlier discussion.

"We keep your boots and clothes."

Aramis glanced at his toes. Losing his boots would be a blow to his purse, but really not much in the grand scheme of things. They were nice boots, long and sturdy. Lots of leather to eat. But it wouldn't be enough. It could never be enough.

Guiton knew. He sighed and seemed to shrink in the flickering light.

"Be worthy of it." He patted the pauldron in farewell.

Aramis stiffened. More lives he'd live for those who couldn't.

He wasn't given time to linger on this thought, being navigated instead down long corridors and winding stairs. There were many soldiers here, all heavily armed. Aramis realised the Huguenots had been expecting them. They'd had more faith in his friends' rescue mission than he did.

At length, they came to a halt by a heavy door. Huge wooden bolts were pulled aside, ready to be slid back into their brackets once he'd passed. A second, identical door was only a few feet away. Unless the defence was completely abandoned, no enemy would gain access here. La Rochelle had earned her reputation for being impenetrable.

"Straight to your camp. Do not dither." Guiton surveyed him from top to peeking toe.

Aramis lifted his hands as far as he could. "What about these?"

"I'm sure you'll be relieved of them soon enough."

Aramis shook his head. He couldn't even think of anything he would do if he could move his hands, but this man wasn't taking any risks. One of Guiton's hands came to rest between his shoulder blades.

"Godspeed."

The door swung open and Aramis was pushed forward so roughly he lost his footing and fell face-first into the mud.

Ungainly like a seal, he wriggled to get his face out of the dirt, to get to his hands and knees. When he had finally clambered up the bank of the small brook, he sat for a while, gasping for air. He wiped the rancid water from his mouth with his sleeve. Freedom didn't taste as sweet as he'd imagined.

Nor did it look as welcoming. The darkness was absolute. He'd been able to see his friends from the wall, but now there was nothing, just inky black. No sound except for the soft rustlings of the night, the hoot of an owl in the distance. He was alone.

All alone in a dark night. All alone with no idea what else waited out there. All alone… No. He knew they were close. He'd seen them. They were there. They hadn't left him. They were coming to get him. They hadn't given up; they hadn't left him to his fate. He just had to find them. Find them before they got too close, before they were within easy reach of the muskets, before they were killed by the Span— the Huguenots.

No. Nobody would get killed tonight. He'd find them and he'd get them far away from that wall and those fanatics. He'd do that, he'd save them. They'd be fine. Everything was fine. He was fine.

He hoisted himself upright. Getting to his feet was cumbersome. His bound limbs made him overbalance and his muscles cramped and ached. He'd worry about that later. Not now. He had to move now. Had to get them away from danger, away from whatever that devilish mayor was planning next. He still couldn't quite believe Guiton had set him free.

He limped away from the wall, deeper into the blackness. Sharp grass cut his feet and he bit down on his lip to not make a sound. Better not draw attention to himself. If they heard him and thought he was… No, they'd recognise him. He couldn't do that to them. They'd recognise him and everything would be fine. Unless—

He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut. He had to stay alert. He couldn't afford to slide back. This wasn't Savoy. Savoy. As soon as he had thought the word, it started to grow inside of him and echoed in his hollow head. No. Mud, not ice. Porthos and Athos, not Marsac. La Rochelle, not Savoy. It was different now.

He peered out into the night. It was fine. He was fine. Against all the odds, he was alive. And against all reason, they were here to come and get him. His friends. They hadn't abandoned him.

Deep breath.

He looked back at the wall, its squat shape looming like a monster on the prowl. He should move a little further to his left, away from the tower. If they had kept up their pace from earlier, they wouldn't have come this far. He'd go to the left and find them.

They'd find him with a bullet to his head. And then what?

His heart had climbed into his throat, choking him. No, they wouldn't. They couldn't risk the noise of a shot, not this close to the wall. They'd wait for him to come close and then— His heart was hurrying through a lifetime of beats, afraid to miss out on its allocated number. Feeling for Athos' pulse when he'd lost all that blood. The happiness when he'd felt its flutter. Porthos' frantic heartbeat vibrating through the reins his first time on a horse. Aramis smiled. Happy memories. And there'd be more.

He hobbled through the dust and weeds. Rocks cut his feet and nettles stung his hands, but he had a memory to counter each of these small hurts. Athos' smirk and Porthos' laugh. Racing them on Angelina. Bickering around a campfire or beating each other at practice. The smell of Porthos' pomade and the soft weave of Athos' shirt.

They had to be close now. He'd find them soon. He had to because if they had walked past—

A movement. A shadow and another and then Aramis was running, stumbling, catching himself. The shadow held up a hand. Aramis kept moving. Closer, closer. He didn't mind the rocks or the nettles or the grass cutting every piece of exposed skin.

"Porthos," he whispered through parched lips.

A shadow separated from the black mass and stepped towards him. Aramis collided with it, collapsed into it. Breathed in mud and sweat and… pomade. His hands scrabbled for purchase on Porthos' leathers. Those were a surprise. But of course, he still wore them and that alone was somehow more… and less… and altogether overwhelming. Real, and there, and still the same when everything else had changed.

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered, shuddering against Porthos' solid chest. Then the words kept tumbling out, faster and faster like a dam had been breached. "I'm sorry, Porthos. You were right. I'm sorry, I… I thought I'd lost you, I thought I… I…"

The tremor of Porthos' chuckle jostled his body, but a firm hand at his back held him steady.

"Shush, you're not making any sense." The smile was in Porthos' voice as well. Humouring him, indulging him. Holding him. Still.

"How…?" Athos' voice.

How indeed? How was he still alive? How had he found them? How had they come out here? How had Guiton known? Oh God Guiton, what if… His stomach clenched and Aramis lurched forward.

"Shh, we're here," Porthos said, holding him.

And he very nearly wasn't. And oh God, what if it was all a trap? What if Guiton…? He wouldn't just let him go for listening, of course not, of course it was a trap and Aramis was the bait and he'd lead them all to damnation and into that hell where they ate pauldrons and boots and still died of hunger.

"Are you alone?" Athos asked.

Aramis managed to nod against Porthos' chest, but even that small movement made more emotions bubble up and spill over, out of his eyes and nose and mouth. Porthos' arms around him tightened, squeezing hard enough to make him feel like he was really there.

"I love you," Aramis gasped.

Voices flew over his shoulder, a hurried exchange. They hadn't heard. Maybe he hadn't made a sound. And maybe it was better that way. He let himself sag against Porthos, let his knees buckle and his body go limp. Porthos hoisted him up and then they were moving. Moving much faster than he had before and it felt like floating, like the Lord had sent angels to carry him home. And in a way he had. Aramis' own personal angels.

There were questions, whispered as they walked. Breaths on the wind that never quite reached Aramis' ear. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more. Just Porthos' hands on his body, the reality of his moving muscles against Aramis' skin. Here and real and alive.

He let Athos' voice wash over him like a cool cloth. Of course, Athos had found a way. Of course, he'd worked it out. Ever the tactician. Always willing to risk it all for a friend. Always here for him. They both were. There were others as well, but those two mattered above all else. He'd go home with them. Home to their little room or to some campfire or one day, eventually, back to their garrison. He'd go wherever they went. Somehow it was easier to believe in them now than it had been to believe in God's grace earlier. They were here and real and tangible.

They had come for him.


	22. Stockholm Syndrome (1 of 2)

_This fic takes place during the Siege of La Rochelle (1627-1628) as part of the French Wars of Religion against the Huguenots. It depicts the effects of brutal siege warfare in a protracted religious conflict. Mentions of rape, child murder, and mass killings in chapter 2. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read._

 **Stockholm Syndrome**

"On this day we celebrate that, by the grace of the Lord our God, our brother was returned to us." Richelieu's voice rang through the hall. He'd left behind his cardinal's robes after the mass. Now he donned his armour, slayer more than shepherd.

"In the words of David: I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people who have set themselves against me round about. And so we, too, do not falter even though the enemy has infested the very heart of our dear France," he continued. "Arise, oh Lord; save me, oh my God! For You have struck all my enemies on the cheek; You have shattered the teeth of the wicked. Salvation belongs to the Lord; Your blessing be upon Your people!"

He wasn't on the pulpit now and this was no church, but still the "Amen" echoed around the room. To Athos' ears, it was the bleating of sheep.

Richelieu had a hand on Aramis' back, showing him off to the assembled dignitaries like the trophy of a successful hunt. Athos grimaced, watching his friend displayed like that. He felt the strange urge to shelter him, though Aramis was the much more experienced warrior.

Aramis had seemed so young when they had tucked him into bed by sunrise. The night had slipped away under too many questions from Tréville and the cardinal. So small and fragile as bruises bloomed on his body. Porthos' fingers ghosted across the mottled skin, reassuring them that nothing was broken or badly hurt. Except for the long shallow cut beneath his ear and a bruised cheekbone, it was impossible to tell now what Aramis had been through, all his injuries carefully tucked away and hidden when he dressed, his back straight and head held high.

"A virtuous and well-disposed person, like a good metal, the more he is fired, the more he is fined," Richelieu said, presenting Aramis to the crowd. Athos wondered what metal he saw in him. The fine gold and silver of the treasury? Or the sturdy steel of a well-forged blade?

"The more he is opposed, the more he is improved," Richelieu continued. "Wrongs may well try him, and touch him, but cannot imprint in him any false stamp."

Next to Athos, Porthos ground his teeth.

"Patience," Athos said. This would not last much longer, this politicising. Soon they would celebrate, starved for any small victory, any event at all, and amidst the food and drink they'd forget about some lowly musketeer, however freshly delivered by God he might be.

"Why does he do this to Aramis?" Porthos asked. "Can't he see he's tired? That he'd rather be—"

"He's the guest of honour," Athos cut him off. "He will do what is demanded of him." He nodded towards their sovereign. "You can see it pleases his Majesty."

Indeed, King Louis looked delighted, grinning and clapping his hands with glee.

"It doesn't please me," Porthos said.

Athos glared at him. "Get a hold of yourself. You've got him back. You'll have your chance to look after him tonight. We're musketeers. Our first duty is to the king."

A low growl built in Porthos' chest. His body reverberated with tension. "Look at him," he spat. "He doesn't even know his name."

Indeed, Richelieu studiously avoided calling Aramis by his name. He made him a brother, a hero, a brave soldier in turn, but never once did he call him Aramis. Instead he was Daniel now, as the cardinal likened La Rochelle to the lions' den.

"But God sent his angels to shut the lions' mouth so they could not hurt him," Richelieu said. "Our brave Daniel was found innocent by the Lord."

Athos smirked. "He'd be the first in many years to find Aramis _innocent_."

Porthos did not go along with his banter. His eyes were fixed on Aramis as if his thoughts alone could renew his brother's fortitude.

From military strategy to biblical parable and back in the blink of an eye, Richelieu's speech flowed masterfully. He held his audience captive. He needed this, they all did, the whole army, the country maybe. A sign of God's favour, a miracle in their midst. A sign that not all was forlorn, that they were not forgotten, that victory would be theirs eventually. Aramis' suffering would do wonders for morale.

"The Lord is on our side as he was on Daniel's," Richelieu cried.

The men cheered and the King clapped. Somehow Athos doubted that the cardinal would follow Daniel's tale to the end. The religious freedom given to the minority as a result of the incident in the lions' den… that seemed an unlikely result.

"With the Lord's aid, we shall rise up and smite those who oppose his will. We shall crush the Huguenots." Richelieu raised Aramis' hand in a gesture of predicted victory.

Athos met his captain's stony glare over the heads of the nobles clustered around the king. All around them, men brayed their support. Shouts of "Crush them!" and "Kill them all!" echoed around the room.

Captain Tréville's eyes narrowed in disgust. He did not like this any more than Athos. Wars were not won by such base populism. None of those shouting would take up a sword to be on the front lines of any battle.

While they scowled at each other, there was a sudden shift in the crowd. Athos' hand flew to his sword, mirroring Captain Tréville. Aramis wrenched his hand free from the cardinal's grasp and ducked away from him and the king. Faster than anyone could react, he had pushed men aside and flown out the side door.

Silence fell.

"My apologies." Captain Tréville bowed to the king. "Aramis still suffers the ill effects of captivity. He would not want your Majesty to witness any weakness that might overcome him..."

"Porthos." Athos nudged his friend towards the king. The silence had broken into rumblings of discontent and the crowd swayed with agitation. The risk to the king was clear, and so was their duty. With difficulty, Porthos tore his gaze from the door that swung shut behind Aramis, and they took up their positions on either side of their sovereign.

"See how a good man suffers, an honest soldier of France, a son of God and defender of the faith." Richelieu's voice soared effortlessly above the din. The murmurs quieted as everyone's attention turned to him.

"He's not—" Porthos started, but Athos hushed him with a glare. This was not their place to voice opinions.

"These heathens captured and tortured him and yet his spirit was strong. They could not hold him. Satan's power is as nothing in the eyes of God. Too long have we suffered their insolence."

Shouts of appreciation and approval rose from the crowd, the assembled officers and courtiers all but mollified. Richelieu, never one to do things by halves, reinforced his point with heavy verbal artillery.

"Too long," he repeated. "Are we not men? Are we not going to revenge this insult to our Holy Church, to Pope Urban himself? Are we not going to win victory for our beloved monarch, Louis XIII by the Grace of God King of France?"

"Long live the King!"

At first it was a single courtier crying it, his weak voice nearly drowned, but others took up the shout and it multiplied until the room echoed with it. The king revelled in the glory. Deservedly? Probably. Such was the order of these things. A soldier's suffering made a king's glory.

Next to Athos, Porthos was pushing back a particularly fervent admirer before he could kiss the king's hand. Athos watched Porthos' jaw tick and knew this was not at all where he wanted to be.

"May our victory be their destruction," Richelieu cried, his arms raised in some mockery of a blessing. "There shall be no mercy for those who oppose us. We shall show them the true might of God and be unto them the bringers of death."

"Death to all Huguenots!" the shout rose all around them.

Athos shook himself. How quickly the mood could change… how quickly their focus shifted from celebration to this… baying for blood like a pack of hounds. And with their cries of death and destruction, the levity had returned. Toasts were offered and taken with renewed vigour and cheer.

The tense situation diffused—and for a moment he wondered if that had been the cardinal's aim—Athos looked at Captain Tréville. He gave him a sharp nod and beckoned two other musketeers forward to take their places by the king's dais.

Athos grabbed Porthos' arm to keep him from bolting at the same speed as Aramis. No need to attract further attention. Much better to slip from the room quietly and unnoticed. If it was indeed a weakness that had overcome him, Aramis would not be glad to see it made the subject of even more gossip and derision. He'd be chiding himself even now, as he had in the aftermath of the incident at Savoy.

Once outside the room, Porthos lengthened his strides and Athos let his hand be shaken off without complaint. Released from their duty for the evening, they both had the same aim now.

"Our room?" Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head. "Too confined."

Of course he knew best. He understood Aramis and could often predict his actions with frightening accuracy. They strode out into the garden. A short, harsh shower had left the trees and bushes dripping, their dark green leaves fresh and rejuvenated. In the evening light, droplets shone and glittered all around them. The heat had not broken though and the air felt like steam.

Aramis paced up and down between two rows of fragrant rose bushes. His blue sash stood out among the red and yellow blooms. Such botanical riches in this small castle in Aytré, when even in Paris, roses were rare. It was easy to forget how wealthy this area had been before the war.

Aramis spun around to face them. His jaws were clenched. He snarled with bared teeth.

"How can he do this?" he asked. "Why does he twist every word I say? Who is he to dole out death with such indifference?"

Porthos held out his arms to calm his friend. Athos tried to do the same with words.

"He's our cardinal and siege commander," he said. "It is not only his right, but his duty to wish death upon our enemies."

Aramis hissed like an angry cat. "He talks of death like it's nothing. He won't be the one to deliver it. He doesn't look into the eye of—" He broke off. "We're nothing but the blunt instruments he wields."

"We're not blunt," Porthos said. "We're—"

"We're whatever he wants us to be. Today we kill Huguenots and tomorrow… and when will the day come when he turns us against each other?"

He kicked a stone and sent it skittering along the garden path.

"You forget yourself." Athos frowned at his friend's back. He did not favour such blatant displays of emotion. "This is the king's trusted advisor and first minister you speak of, and the commander of this siege."

"Oh yes." Aramis turned around to face them, an ugly sneer upon his face. "How dare I say anything against our great commander? How dare I not cheer his success? How am I not overjoyed?"

"Aramis listen…" Porthos tried again.

"I've listened enough," Aramis spat. "I've listened to all of this for so long. Year after year they tell me who to hate and who to kill. I go here and there and shed my blood and risk my life and for what?"

"For France."

"For France?" Aramis laughed, but there was no humour in it, only mockery. "Is this not France?" he asked and pointed across the garden towards the battlements in the distance. "Are they not French, as French as you and me?"

"They are Huguenots."

"Oh yes, I forgot, that makes them less than men, that makes them nothing but dirt upon your fancy boots, Athos, does it?"

Athos closed his eyes for a moment to gather some patience. He understood that Aramis was hurting, but that did not make the personal attacks any easier to bear.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it," he said eventually. "We are fighting a war against them. It is our duty as soldiers…"

"Oh really?" The scorn didn't suit Aramis. It marred his handsome face. His voice grated in Athos' ears. "What gives you the right to an opinion in all this, Athos? You waltz in here at the very end and pretend to understand the war. Oh, have you read about it? Yes, is that it? Some theories of the Greeks and Romans, your beloved strategy? Are you an expert now? Guess what, I've been in it. I've fought it since the beginning. I've given a third of my life to this war. Don't lecture me on duty."

"That was never my—"

"Not your intention. Oh no, oh never, never causing any harm, are you? Athos the Just, Athos the Kind, Athos the _Noble_."

Athos flinched at that last word. He'd take the insults, he didn't mind. They were nothing he hadn't told himself many times before. His inexperience, his bookishness, his limited usefulness. If bringing these up helped Aramis vent his anger, fine. But that word still stung. Nobility. He'd join Aramis in scorning that.

"So good, aren't you?" Aramis continued. "But you'll do the bidding of that sadist, that bigot, that murderer Richelieu. You'll kill whoever he wants, as often as he wants."

"Aramis." Porthos looked around them, checking they hadn't been overheard. "You can't say that about the cardinal."

"What? Afraid he'll add me to the piles of dead he leaves in his wake?"

It wasn't like Aramis to talk like that, to take death so lightly. He killed, frequently and with some joy, but he never mocked death. After every fight, every shot, he'd see a priest to ask absolution for his sins. Athos didn't recognise this new Aramis spitting venom at his dearest friend.

"He's doing it now," Aramis said. "He's killing tens of thousands in La Rochelle."

"They have the option to surrender," Athos said.

"Do they?" Again, the ridicule was sharp in his questions. "Won't he just bring them a worse death? Hasn't he done so before? Wake up, Athos, you're not that daft! That man orders us to kill. We're killing men, women, and children. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of them. And he claims we'll go to heaven for it."

"He's a cardinal as well as a general, Aramis."

"Oh yes, look at that red cloak." Aramis sneered. "So handsome, so justified in his fury, so infallible that every word I say against him earns me hellfire and damnation."

Aramis shook his balled fists in front of his face and screamed in inarticulate rage. He stomped up and down the path, clenching and unclenching his hands. Athos had no idea how to counter that fury. He simply gave him space.

After a few minutes, Aramis stopped his pacing and stood in front of them, trembling slightly.

"Hellfire and damnation," he repeated, voice hoarse and quiet now. "For speaking up against the cardinal. Not for the murders he makes me commit."

He sighed out a deep breath. Maybe absolution from god wasn't all there was to it. Athos was familiar with the strict judge that sat in a man's own heart.

"Hey." Porthos reached out for him, but Aramis jerked back.

"Don't pretend," he sneered. "You and your big soft heart. Always a man of the people, right? Oh yes, you love them so much. But you'll still be the first to rush in and murder them. Always first to the fray. Killing, killing, killing, that's all you do."

Athos sucked in a breath through his teeth. Porthos flinched. That must have hurt. Aramis' impeccable aim had hit right at the very heart of Porthos. His humanity, his kindness, all the things Porthos had worked so hard for and was—quite rightly—so proud of.

For a while, all was silent.

Athos' mind raced. He worried for Porthos. For their friendship after what Aramis had said. And he worried if he should say something. He probably should, but what was there to say?

"You're worse than your horse when you're like this." Porthos crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"What are you saying about Angelina?" Aramis hissed, taken aback by the sudden change in topic and immediately on the defensive.

Porthos slowly shook his head, looking him up and down. "She'll bite and kick just the same when she's scared, but at least she lets you help. You're just hurting everyone."

"I'm not—" Aramis paused. "I'm not scared."

He sounded so… small. So vulnerable. So scared. They'd checked him for injuries, had made sure that those bruises were nothing but bruises and weren't hiding something more. He'd assured them that he hadn't been tortured, just beaten. They'd assured themselves that he was telling the truth, that he'd gotten off lightly. Stiff and aching and with cuts to his feet and one to his hand that he guaranteed them wasn't deep enough to need stitching. They'd tucked him up in bed and watched over him as he slept. But they hadn't looked inside. Couldn't.

"Then let me help," Porthos said. There was no hint of hurt in his voice, just kindness, the same kindness Aramis had denied was in him a minute ago.

Porthos opened his arms and smiled. A sad smile, a tired one, but a smile, nonetheless. Aramis stood frozen. Porthos took one slow, steady step forward like one might do with a skittish horse. His arms wide, hands open, as if showing Aramis he was carrying no weapons, no bridle to capture him and once again hold him prisoner.

Athos held his breath as Porthos took another careful step. Aramis didn't flee, but Porthos didn't draw him into an embrace either. They stood, facing each other, barely a foot apart.

With a choked noise, Aramis threw himself forward, catapulting his body into Porthos' chest. Porthos didn't waver, stood his ground, steady as an oak. He folded his arms around his friend, drew in his shoulders until they engulfed him, and rested his head on Aramis' hair. For a few minutes, nobody spoke. The only sound was a bird singing in a rose bush and the faint noise of the great feast drifting across the gardens.

Porthos brushed Aramis' hair from his forehead, gently tilting his head upwards until they were looking each other in the eye.

"There." He smiled. "All better."

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. "No."

Athos felt like he'd been plunged into cold water. Aramis was always better when Porthos was close. Porthos sometimes teased him saying Aramis needed frequent petting like a cat in some lady's salon. And when there weren't any ladies around, Porthos would take over the petting duties. If it wasn't Porthos, Aramis would find someone else to touch. Athos chided himself for that oversight. They should have held him more. Porthos had carried him home, of course, but after that, after the questioning, the strategizing, they'd focused on the essentials, ignoring that for Aramis those didn't consist of only food, drink, sleep and medical attention.

Porthos wasn't affected by Aramis' short reply. "Shhh," he said. "You're alright. I've got you and Athos too. You're safe now."

Aramis sighed. "That doesn't make it better. _You_ can't make it better."

Still, Porthos smiled. "Try me."

Aramis wriggled free of his embrace. His eyes were wide, looking at something far away, beyond Porthos and the rose bushes. "There's nothing you can do. It's this…" He stomped his foot and shook his head, as if forcing himself back into the present. "It's _politics_."

He spat the last word like an insult.

"That's alright," Porthos said, undeterred. "Not the first time we've been dealing with politics. What really matters is that you—"

"I don't matter," Aramis hissed. "Nobody does. Don't you get it? He doesn't care. Nobody cares. We don't matter. They don't matter. It's all about politics."

"It doesn't have to be."

Oh but it did… Sweet, _soft-hearted_ Porthos. Of course they couldn't escape politics. Athos had learned that the hard way. Run as he might, politics followed him. Different politics now, as a musketeer, but politics, nonetheless. It was impossible to extricate oneself from politics. He shuddered at the thought. He wished it were different, for his own sake and for his friends.

Porthos' face was pleading. He wanted… wanted so much to make it better, to hold and mend and heal. That's what he did. Athos watched Aramis' wry smile, Porthos' answering hopeful grin lighting up his features. With an ugly premonition, Athos knew Porthos was not going to win this argument.

"This isn't some distant attack by the Spanish," Aramis said. Porthos flinched. As a rule, they did not bring up Savoy in conversation and certainly never in arguments. "We're not in Paris, we're right here. And it's happening right now. This time you can't separate what happened to me from what we are doing."

"You're not their prisoner anymore." Athos had to give Porthos credit for his tenacity, but he was fighting a losing battle. Athos could see now what Aramis meant. "You're with us and you're free."

"They aren't."

"They?"

"The Rochelais."

Athos raised his eyebrows. During Aramis' captivity, Porthos had recounted their argument from the previous night in great detail. It seemed a significant change to pivot from shooting whosoever stuck their nose out the city gates to worrying about the freedom of the Huguenots.

"They are free to surrender whenever they want. Nobody is forcing them to be more stubborn than mules."

Porthos snorted.

"They can't, though," Aramis said.

"They can wave that white flag whenever they want."

"And then what? They have nothing to offer, no threat to make. They'd be at our mercy and we all know how _that_ ends." Aramis gnawed on his lip.

Athos frowned. He was missing something. Something they _all_ knew, apparently.

"We are at war," he pointed out as gently as possible. Wars ended when one side won and the other lost. That was the way of things. There was nothing Athos or Aramis or any of them could do about that.

"Killing, killing…" Aramis bit down on his lip until a thin line of blood appeared. Athos fervently wished that one of Porthos' embraces would suffice to take his evident pain away, but he knew better. Death had been a difficult topic for Aramis for as long as he knew him. But usually it was the death of friends he struggled with or a threat to the lives of his friends. He fought more viciously when one of them was in danger, whether with his weapons or his medical kit.

"They are enemies." Porthos didn't sound convinced at all, clearly taken aback by their sudden role reversal, arguing the opposite of their stances from two days ago.

"Are they not also formed in the image of God?" Aramis' voice sounded shaky. He looked from Porthos to Athos, wordlessly pleading. For what, Athos did not know.

"But they are Huguenots," Porthos said. Not friends. Not people Aramis worried about. People he killed.

Aramis scoffed. "Whose crime it is to sing in French the psalms we sing in Latin."

That wasn't quite true, there was the small matter of revolt and opposition to the king, but Athos understood the gist of the argument. He nodded grimly.

"I do believe that is what religious wars are all about."


	23. Stockholm Syndrome (2 of 2)

Athos blotted the page he had just written. He looked over the writing and added a missing dot. Fastidious, maybe. The letter was hardly going to the most literate of minds. But he took pride in this simple work. There was a beauty in it that he did not find often in this siege. He smirked as he slid the paper across the table to Richelieu. The cardinal looked over it, his hand with the quill poised delicately over his ornate inkwell. Athos thought of his father, the late Comte de la Fère, and how scandalised he would be to see his son and heir reduced to a common scribe. Not quite what he'd spent all that money on tutors for.

Richelieu nodded and signed with a flourish. The smell of melted wax filled the room a moment later as the cardinal pressed his signet ring into it, giving Athos' words his official seal of approval. A small achievement, but an oddly satisfying one.

Athos retrieved a new sheet of paper and smoothed it onto the desk. He was hunkered down in the corner, Richelieu presiding over proceedings in the grand chair while Captain Tréville had been relegated to the spot of a visitor in his own office. Not that he sat much. He much preferred to pace the room and gaze out of the window as he deliberated. Athos suspected he also preferred not to look at the cardinal.

These meetings were one of Athos' preferred activities in this new realm of being Captain Tréville's right-hand man. Not as enjoyable as leading the men into action or directing training sessions, but a vast improvement over managing their bad tempers and trying to smooth social relations. He knew his limitations.

They started their discussion again and Athos paid close attention, ready to write down any further orders or letters. He never spoke up. Over the course of their meetings, he had started to make his own amendments to their ideas as he wrote them down. They had both noted, but it was not discussed so he assumed they were in agreement with his small additions. Nothing major, of course. He knew his place.

There was nothing interesting about their work, not in the sense of the word that Aramis would use. Very little excitement to be had in the inner workings of keeping an army of thousands fed and supplied. Athos enjoyed it, though. The stark difference to military tactics in earlier centuries was remarkable. Smaller armies, as he knew from books he had studied, had lived off the land, buying off local merchants or, at the less honourable end of the scale, pillaging farms.

Grain deliveries had slowed with influential land owners demanding higher and higher prices the cardinal was unwilling to pay from the royal coffers. Nevertheless, the soldiers had to eat. The plentiful food was one of the few things that kept morale… if not high then at least existent. It was an unspoken truth that they were only a few failed deliveries away from mutiny.

"Unthinkable, this close to our ultimate victory," Richelieu said. "Not much longer until we have, with God's aid, starved them out."

Captain Tréville shook his head. "Not if we're starved first."

"We are far from starvation. Your men do not need a feast every day."

The captain stared out of the window. Athos thought he could see tension in his shoulders. "They are hardly feasting. Men need to eat. You leave them few other pleasures."

A mocking smile played around the cardinal's thin lips. "Discipline, Tréville," he drawled. "I was under the illusion that you soldiering types valued that, even if you do value precious little else."

Captain Tréville's fingers tightened on the windowsill. "I'm not the one ordering pheasants and anchovies."

"Plenty of common men to fill the ranks, Tréville." Richelieu waved his hand dismissively. "But only one king. We cannot afford for his majesty to grow bored and seek the diversions of Paris once more."

Athos did the complete opposite of what he had been trained for his entire life and sought to blend into his surroundings. He knew they spoke more freely when he did not draw attention to himself. Their exchanges were fascinating to him, the verbal sparring of two such intelligent men with such differing morals.

"Not long now," Richelieu said. "I grow weary of this campaign." He plucked at his leathers. "This does not suit me."

Athos bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a huff. The truth was the cardinal had taken to soldiering like it was his true calling. Command suited him very well indeed. It would be odd to see him return to his customary robes.

"The letters to the Beauce," Tréville said. Athos silently congratulated him for not rising to the bait. "We should appeal to their patriotism, encourage them to support the war effort… if necessary, the encouragement could be military. My musketeers would be glad to—"

Richelieu waved him off. "If it was any other man, it would be my pleasure to give you carte blanche to _encourage_ him in any way you see fit, but this is a matter that requires more delicacy than your crude schemes permit."

"I was not suggesting we march an army straight to Étampes."

"Tempting though as it may be." Richelieu sighed. "To let the Beauce, the breadbasket of France, be ruled by this despicable César de Vendôme… A regrettable oversight of the king's late father to ever grant the Duchy of Étampes to that mistress of his and let it fall to her bastard thereafter."

"Its strategic value cannot be underestimated." Tréville scratched his beard. "We should appeal to César's better nature. He is the king's older brother."

"Illegitimate half-brother. And hardly inclined to help us, as I've held him imprisoned for the past two years for conspiracy against my life. I assure you it would bring me great joy to return his estates to the crown."

Athos leaned forward in his seat, eager to learn why Richelieu did not simply strip César of his lands and titles. Surely, Gaston was enough trouble as a brother of the king. There seemed little need to pander to an illegitimate and dangerous man.

Before he could learn anything, there was a commotion outside. Athos stood, hand on his sword, Tréville by his side. The cardinal did not stir.

Shouting on the other side of the door, the guard challenging whoever dared to attack, a thump, and then the door burst open.

Aramis.

Like a dark, vengeful angel he strode into the room, Michael in full battle gear, though of course Athos did not imply that Richelieu was to be likened to Satan in this, their private war.

"What is this?" Tréville stepped forward, barring Aramis' progress.

Before Aramis could reply, Porthos stumbled into the room, half-dressed and out of breath.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I tried to stop him. Said you were busy. He wouldn't stop."

Richelieu tutted. "Discipline…"

Aramis paid him no heed. He stared at Tréville. "I need to talk. With you."

Athos stepped closer. "Not now," he hissed. Why Aramis felt the need to disturb them now was inconceivable. He knew he'd have the captain's ear at any time. Tréville was hardly inaccessible. To barge in like that… They had a war to win.

Aramis glared at him. "I need…" He took a deep breath and turned to Tréville. "Captain, I need to talk to you."

"Afterwards," Tréville said. "Meet me in an hour."

"You encourage this misdemeanour." Richelieu snickered. "Spare the rod, spoil the child. Or soldier, if you detect a difference."

Aramis wheeled around.

"You…" There seemed to be too many words all warring to tumble out of his mouth first. Richelieu smirked at him over his steepled hands.

"Yes, something to say there, soldier?" he taunted. "Haven't you talked enough yet?"

Aramis' hands balled into fists as he fought to control himself. "I have grave concerns about our strategy." He enunciated each word very clearly.

"Aramis, I don't think this is the place," Athos said.

Aramis still stared at the cardinal. "I might as well speak to you both, since you are here."

"Don't…" Porthos pleaded.

"You might not want to do this quite as publicly." Tréville looked pointedly around the room.

"It affects us all," Aramis said. "We're all made to be complicit in the death of La Rochelle."

"We're at war," Tréville said.

"War is one of the scourges with which it has pleased God to afflict men," Richelieu added, sounding like one of Athos' philosophy tutors. "Soldier," he added, derision in his voice.

"A soldier, not a murderer." Aramis was perfectly composed now, like he was before a shot. Quiet and deadly. "There is a distinction."

"One you straddle with impunity, sniper."

"Yes. I shoot. I kill. I ask forgiveness for my sins. But I'm not… I'm not willing to be…"

"Impertinence," Richelieu said conversationally. "Captain, you do need to work on your men's discipline."

"His captivity has not been without consequence. Aramis is still recovering," Tréville said.

"I'm as recovered as I'll ever be." Aramis' tightly clenched fists were the only outward sign of emotion. "But my captivity has made me question the righteousness of our actions."

"Matters an ordinary soldier does not have to concern himself with." Richelieu waved his hand. "You may continue your recovery. Elsewhere."

"Lift the siege."

For a moment, everyone stared at Aramis in disbelief. Then Richelieu barked out a shrill laugh. "Cowardice. I did not expect that from one of yours, Tréville."

"Not cowardice, but a yearning for justice."

"If you want justice, we cannot possibly lift the siege. An uprising against the King, revolt against the church and state… surely you agree that such deeds must be punished?"

"They are starving. They are dying. Women and children. They've eaten all the rats and moved on to boot leather."

Porthos took in a sharp breath. This was more his usual concern than Aramis'. Athos knew that Porthos had seen hunger growing up in the less savoury parts of Paris. Not uncommon, but a reality that continued to affect him even now.

"Justice…" Richelieu watched his own fingertips as he slowly tapped them against each other. "Justice does not equate leniency, especially where the state is concerned. Harshness towards individuals who flout the laws and commands of state is for the public good. No greater crime against the public interest is possible than to show leniency to those who violate it."

He had clearly voiced this thought before, maybe written it. While the cardinal was an eloquent man, this felt too polished, even for him. It was curious to realise that the man spent time thinking about such things. Justice and the public interest. Though, Athos amended, in Richelieu's eyes it would probably always be the commands of the state that were most important.

"Haven't these years been harsh enough?" Aramis asked. "Years of death and destruction."

"And yet they still fight, they still refuse to submit to their rightful king."

"They are caught, they are desperate. They have nowhere to go but death."

"La Rochelle is their last great fortress. A fortress we will take."

"Of course," Aramis said. "I don't doubt our victory. But reducing humans to this, humans formed in the image of God the same as us… We trap them like animals."

Richelieu cocked his head to one side, looking Aramis up and down from still-bruised face to borrowed boots. "I fail to grasp the substance of your complaint," he said. "Surely, separating criminals from law-abiding people is acceptable, even to you. It seems most appropriate in this matter. Had Luther and Calvin been confined before they had begun to dogmatize, the states would have been spared many troubles."

They were speaking on completely different levels. Richelieu had his focus on the state, while Aramis worried about the person. Athos looked from one to the other, wondering if they realised that.

"I do not ask you to release them," Aramis said. "But please, in the name of God, negotiate. Accept a mediator, let them keep that small shred of hope."

"And who, pray, might that mediator be?"

"The King of England."

Richelieu laughed. "A foreign and antagonistic leader? To negotiate the enforcement of our own French laws?"

Aramis held his hands out, pleading for mercy. "They need some form of guarantee."

"A guarantee? For rebels?" Richelieu's eyebrows shot heavenwards "I think not."

"For their lives."

"They forfeit them long ago." Richelieu looked sharply at Aramis. "I understand you are a veteran of these wars. Thus, I would expect you to understand that much."

Aramis shook his head. "You haven't seen what I… the hunger… it is inhumane, you wouldn't let a dog die in such misery. And yet… they prefer this over… over unconditional surrender. The fear in their eyes. The fear of us and what…"

Athos frowned at his sudden loss of eloquence, the pain in his faraway eyes.

Richelieu clicked his tongue softly, half mockery half sympathy. "Your emotion clouds your judgement," he said. "You forget that reason must be the universal rule and guide; all things must be done according to reason without allowing oneself to be swayed by emotion."

Athos championed reason in all things. They laughed at him for that, ridiculed his rational approach, his brutal logic. He didn't mind. He had learned the hard way what emotion lead to. Reason was safer, was kinder in the end. He was glad that his friends had no experience of that particular lesson.

Reason, the universal rule and guide. He should believe that. He had been taught to believe it. He had read countless books on logic and reason, had been educated in ancient Greek and Roman philosophies. He knew what was right. But if it was right, why was it so hard to believe? He looked at Aramis, saw the despair in his eyes. Aramis… ruled by emotion, certainly, but...

"How can it be reason to destroy an enemy like that? To cast aside our laws, God's commandments, and basic human decency?" Aramis asked. "Let them live, guarantee their safety and you can have whatever you want."

"And what if I want them to beg on their knees, to plead for mercy?" Richelieu smiled at Aramis, indifferent to his fervour. He toyed with him like a cat with a mouse.

Aramis knew he wouldn't win. Athos had never seen him so distraught, not unless he was pleading with the invisible foe that had taken his brothers in Savoy. Like he had been in Savoy, he was overwhelmed by an almighty enemy. He was powerless against the might of the cardinal. But he did not give up.

"Then you—"

"Enough." Captain Tréville did not raise his voice, but he spoke with such finality, that for a moment nobody dared to breathe. "You have made your point, Aramis. You have been heard."

Heard and summarily ignored. Ignored because whatever he had to say was no news to Richelieu. On the contrary, it was his design. You wouldn't let a dog die in such misery. Athos was prepared to take Aramis' word for that. Not a dog, but looking at Richelieu now, he certainly intended to let the Huguenots die like that.

Captain Tréville stared at Aramis and Aramis returned the glare. They looked to be having a conversation that Athos was not privy to. He glanced at Porthos who was eyeing everyone in turn, lost in the intricacies of the situation. They all wanted to end this siege, needed to. In that, their goals converged. Their reasons differed. For Porthos and Athos, it was mainly boredom. Captain Tréville and the cardinal wrestled with a capricious king and warring political priorities in a country that was no longer holding its breath. And Aramis… Aramis had his own, humanitarian reasons.

Aramis nodded sharply, then stepped aside, away from Richelieu, obeying Captain Tréville's unspoken order.

"You may return to your lodgings," Captain Tréville said. "Athos, we no longer require your services."

Athos closed the inkwell and put his writing supplies back into the cupboard. When he looked back up, Aramis had shrunken in on himself, deflated like an empty water skin. Porthos hovered uncertainly, not sure who the combatants might be and who he'd be protecting. Athos caught his eye and nodded towards the door.

"Gentlemen," Captain Tréville said. "If you please… I'll see you at muster. I apologise for the interruption, Cardinal. As you see, a captain's business never ends."

"I do not anticipate comprehension from your musketeers." Richelieu waved his hand as if he were swatting away a fly. "They are merely instruments for the execution of their sovereign's will. They are hardly selected for their mental capacity."

Athos breathed in sharply, then chided himself for rising to the bait. Richelieu had not minded his intellect a few minutes prior when he approved the letter Athos had altered from his dictation. He drew his shoulders back and marched towards the door.

"Captain." He nodded to Tréville in farewell. "Cardinal."

Richelieu leaned back in the chair, steepled his hands and smiled his sardonic smile. A cat about to pounce.

"Alas, their ability is limited to small, tangible matters. In which they prove useful. However, one cannot ask them to consider affairs of state, nor to comprehend the role of a strong central government in guiding the fate of our nation, in establishing France as the foremost power in Europe and Paris the shining light in its centre."

Porthos had a hand on Aramis' neck, marching him out the door. There was no suggestion of force, but in his own way Porthos was as convincing as Captain Tréville. Aramis did not argue.

As they were leaving, Captain Tréville took Athos aside for a moment.

"You have to understand," he whispered urgently. "It is for the good of the king. For his sake we cannot signal that revolt is all that easily survivable."

The king, of course, was their priority in all they did. Instruments for the execution of their sovereign's will. Richelieu was not mistaken. Their foremost duty was the protection of the king. Athos sighed as the heavy door closed behind him. He bade the guards at the door farewell and followed his friends to their room.

"Really?" Athos lifted several bottles, trying to find one that wasn't empty. "In front of the cardinal?"

"Might as well go straight for the one who's responsible," Porthos said, looking at him pleadingly. Athos noticed Aramis was perched on the bed, swaying slightly. He sighed. They should have seen this coming. Should have seen it and prevented it.

"He doesn't feel responsible for anything." Aramis kicked his boots against the bed. "He only looks out for himself."

"And the king," Athos said, Captain Tréville's reminder fresh on his mind. "Don't discount that in him."

Aramis huffed. "Even when the king's—"

"Don't," Athos said. "Say another word and it's treason."

He tried and failed to put the same steely warning into his voice that Tréville had earlier.

"I'm not so worried about laws of men," Aramis said.

"It's men who'll hang you," Porthos said.

Aramis scrubbed his beard. "By the grace of God, King of France… it's God's will… he… and they…" He held out his hands like plates of a scale. "One life, but divine. Men, women, children, thousands of them… and still…" His imaginary scale veered sharply to the right.

"We're the king's musketeers," Porthos said.

"None of us would ever wish the king ill," Athos added.

Aramis sighed and yanked his fingers through his hair. He bit his lip and sat up straight. "I know," he said, his words sounding as hollow as theirs.

"Their defeat has to be absolute. Anything else would jeopardise the safety of the king," Athos said.

"There's other Huguenot towns," Porthos added. "If they see…"

"And not just them," Athos said. "Think of that Spanish general. He thought the siege was won half a year ago. The king would look a weakling, all of France would, if we negotiated terms of the Huguenot's surrender now."

He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, Aramis or himself. For a while, all was silent.

Aramis buried his face in his hands. Porthos sat down next to him, rubbing circles on his back and shooting Athos a helpless glance. Athos pulled up their one rickety chair.

"What is it, Aramis?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Aramis sniffed before he answered and while his voice was steady, that little moment stung Athos with the rawness of the emotion it betrayed.

"It's so brutal."

"It's war," Athos said. "This is not a time for charity."

"Then when is?" Aramis looked up, his eyes red. "Once war is over? When everyone has found a shallow grave? Then we show charity?"

"Aramis… you know—"

"The king and the country, and my duty as a musketeer." Aramis shook his head and softened his tone. "I've been in this war for most of my adult life, Athos. I know."

Porthos squeezed his shoulder and Athos was glad to see Aramis lean into the touch.

"Too long," Porthos said. "You've seen too much."

Aramis gave him a thin smile. "It's not that. It's not about me, about—" He interrupted his own trail of thoughts, avoiding the word _Savoy_. "It's about the work we have to do and the effect it has on… on those we're told are our enemies."

Porthos frowned. "You… you doubt our work as musketeers?"

Aramis shook his head, but slowly, hesitantly. "No, of course not," he said without any real conviction. The ensuing silence was heavy with unspoken fears.

"You don't do it, though," Athos said. "This morning on the battlements… you could have had a shot."

"He was too far away."

Athos raised his eyebrows. "Not for you."

Porthos followed their verbal sparring with interest. "He's right," he said. "He wasn't as far as those men by the mill."

"I didn't have a clear shot, all right?" Aramis shrugged off Porthos' hand and jumped to his feet.

Athos leaned back in his chair. "I wonder if this has anything to do with your captivity."

Aramis threw his hands in the air. "Fine, then, maybe I don't see very well with this." He gestured towards his face.

"I don't think he meant the bruises," Porthos said.

Aramis glared at him for a moment but didn't really seem invested in his ire. He started to pace the small room.

"I can't do this," he said. "I can't… well, I can, but it's not _right_."

"It's just another siege," Porthos said. "It'll be over soon and then..."

But Aramis shook his head.

"You've been in many sieges," Athos said. "What's different now?"

"I've seen behind the walls," Aramis said. "I've had a meal with a man who'd give France a splendid navy if only he prayed in Latin like everyone else. The children and women who die, they aren't anonymous corpses any more, they're his daughters."

Porthos made a sympathetic noise but left the speaking to Athos. Athos wished he had something smart to say, like Porthos clearly expected him to. He didn't.

"That's difficult," he said.

Aramis didn't answer. He bit his lips fiercely and continued his pacing, maybe to hide the wet sheen in his eyes.

"The dehumanisation of the enemy is a major aspect of the philosophy of war," Athos said to fill the silence. He had read that somewhere. Machiavelli maybe. "Perfectly understandable that you are struggling now this veil has been cast aside."

Aramis kneaded his forehead. "They are always human. Children of God. They always are and I… I can't do this any more."

"Do you want to talk to a priest?" Porthos asked. "Confession maybe?"

"And be condemned for questioning the cardinal?" Aramis gave him a wry smile. "I think not."

"It will be over soon," Athos said. He realised how uncharacteristically optimistic that was, but he really hoped it was true, for Aramis and all of their sakes. _A battle that you win cancels all your mistakes_. He knew for sure that that was Machiavelli.

"It scares me," Aramis said. "When it's over. The… the reaction. All these bored men, thousands of them, fed a steady diet of hate…"

Hate and not much else. Athos saw where he was going with this. They would be releasing a pack of rabid dogs.

"You've done it before," Porthos said. "You've been to how many sieges? You were at Montpellier, right? And the other one, No– Nee–"

"Nègrepelisse." Aramis was staring out of the window. It was too high up to see more than the glistening blue sky and the branches of a nearby tree.

"Yes, that one," Porthos said. "That made me join the army, you know. There was a man in Paris telling how they'd murdered a whole regiment and then you took the city and it was all so full of praise and glory, I wanted to do that, too."

"No." Aramis spun around. "Don't say that. Any of that."

"But it's a good thing. It's the reason I'm here now. You're the reason—"

"No! That's not… that _thing_ , that… it's not… don't say that. You're… you're not tied to that." He leaned forward and hovered over Porthos who still sat on the bed. Aramis' hands twitched at his sides, as if he was struggling to stop himself from grabbing and shaking his friend.

"Aramis…" Athos had no idea what to say.

Porthos was wide-eyed, staring up at Aramis. "Tell us?" he asked, stretching for Aramis who shifted just out of reach.

Aramis shook himself and resumed pacing. "It was hell."

Athos was surprised to hear him use that word. It held deeper meaning for him. Deeper even than the horrors of Savoy.

"How?" he asked. Maybe little prompts would help Aramis release those memories from their deep dungeon.

"We were commanded to give no quarter, and we didn't. We were told to treat them like they treated others and we… oh God…" Aramis scrubbed his hands over his face.

"You don't have to tell us," Porthos said. "But maybe… maybe it'll help?"

Aramis looked at him like he had spoken in tongues. "No," he said eventually. "It won't. But… Are you sure? You don't have to…"

He was staring at Porthos for confirmation. Confirmation he wanted to tear down the version of his own past he had believed for all those years.

Porthos breathed in slowly and released the air audibly. He nodded. "Please."

Aramis stood up straighter and fixed his eyes on some invisible spot on the wall. "Half an hour," he said. "No more than that and not a soul left alive."

Porthos hissed in horror and Athos' face gave an involuntary twitch, but they didn't interrupt.

"It's a small town by the river," Aramis said. "Was a small town. We didn't leave anyone behind to rebuild." He huffed a humourless laugh. "Very thorough work."

He pressed his clenched fist to his lips, his eyes lost somewhere far away. Far south, Athos suspected.

"We overwhelmed them. I wasn't in the first assault, not with the cavalry. When we rode through the gates a few minutes later, the fighting was already… dying down. They were dead. Civilians. Pitiless. Men, climbing on all fours over piles of bodies to murder more… My horse slipped, the cobbles slick with blood."

He shook his head as if he wanted to dislodge the images he conjured.

"My regiment was called back out, to the other side of the town, the opposite bank of the river. Women tried to swim it with infants in their arms, pleading for mercy. Clutching their lifeless bodies when their pleas were ignored. They were speared and gutted like fish."

Porthos reached out for him again. "I'm sorry Aramis."

Aramis shrugged. "None of us were."

"That's not right. You clearly—"

"I did nothing. I let them. That night I went and said prayers for the dead. I closed their eyes so at least they wouldn't see their city burn. I did that so I wouldn't have to…" He trailed off.

Athos looked at Porthos for guidance. This was emotional, so much more Porthos' area of expertise. But Porthos' eyes were fixed on Aramis as if he was making up for the lack of touch, offering comfort in any way he could. Athos was reminded of an interrogation. Aramis had taught them that it was best to have roles. So if Porthos was the supportive one, Athos figured he should be the one to push.

"What else?" he asked.

"Fifteen girls… The Keeper of the Seals hid them in his tent, had his personal guard protect them on punishment of death. One of the highest offices of France and he only managed fifteen. He was praised for his great charity, but there must have been hundreds. Hundreds who…" He shivered. "Every one of them was violated, young or old. In the end, they begged to be killed."

Girls like the daughters of his captor in La Rochelle. No wonder that recent insights had dragged up that old terror.

"The next morning, the last survivors surrendered to us. We hanged them from the walls as a warning to all." Aramis' voice was flat now, devoid of emotion. "Our duty was done."

"A terrible duty," Athos said.

"And they hadn't even murdered that regiment," Aramis said. "People told the king that so he'd be merciless. And… we were."

He let his shoulders hang, empty of the horrors of that tale at last. Later that same year, he had joined Captain Tréville to become one of the first musketeers. Athos wondered why he would have wanted to be closer to the one who'd commanded these atrocities. It felt the wrong question to ask at that moment.

"You have never mentioned this before," he said instead. "Has this bothered you for all these years?"

"It's not exactly something you forget." Aramis snarled at him. "You wouldn't understand."

Like Athos had no things he couldn't forget. He brushed that thought aside to focus on Aramis, ignoring the shadowy spectres at the edge of his vision.

"What I meant is, have you thought about this frequently for all those years?"

Aramis shook his head.

"A recent development brought on by your captivity?" Athos guessed.

Aramis nodded. "Which makes me feel no better. I take no pride in having forgotten it."

Forgotten or locked away in some dark crevice of his mind like so many of Athos' own memories that he would rather forget. Hidden away, but ready to attack at the most inopportune moment.

"It's different now," Porthos said. "You're not that man anymore. And it's not the same siege."

Athos knew Aramis' reply before his friend had spoken. Because really, could any man ever become better? Wasn't there evil in every heart, reflected in every action?

Aramis seemed to agree. "I'm just as useless now," he said.

"You're not useless," Porthos protested. "You told the cardinal—"

"And was dismissed. I have done nothing."

"What do you expect?"

"What do _they_ expect?" Aramis resumed his pacing. "They didn't let me go for this."

Athos had wondered about that. Porthos was not inclined to question their good fortune, but Athos marvelled at the reasons for the voluntary release. "They overestimated your influence," he said. "They thought you could change the course of the siege."

"My influence, my wits, my courage, my willingness… it's just not enough." Aramis kicked the wall. "I'm not who they think I am."

"It's not your fault," Porthos said. "They got it wrong."

Aramis dropped his face into his hands. "After all these years… still watching the slaughter. It will be Nègrepelisse all over again."

And they'd be complicit in it.


	24. Apocalypse

_Deep and dark. This is a bad one and I fully understand if you don't want to read it. The overarching story will still make sense if you keep in mind that there was a very dark episode here._  
 _Despite the title, this has nothing to do with the current pandemic. I wrote this some months ago and apparently had the zeitgeist pegged for March 2020. This is about the aftermath of brutal siege warfare. If you have read my previous fics, you know where this is going and then it's going a good bit further. It gets progressively worse as you read on so if you find something upsetting, please stop._  
 _ **Warnings, in particular, for blood and dead bodies, as well as suicidal thoughts and the aftermath of suicide.** _  
_The next fic posted in this series will be tens of thousands of words of tender loving care, I promise. We'll all need it. All the best to you and all those you love in these difficult months._

* * *

 **Apocalypse**

"Athos."

The man's head shot up immediately. He nodded, acknowledging Tréville's call, and got to his feet. Other musketeers clapped him on the shoulder and swayed drunkenly into his path, but Athos sidestepped them with a nimbleness that suggested he hadn't been indulging. He wound his way through the crowd, determined to reach Tréville as fast as he could. This smart, noble man followed his command without question or hesitation. Tréville sighed out a huge breath.

He wasn't the only one watching Athos. As involved as Porthos was in the conversation around their table, he'd shifted as soon as Athos got up. His eyes followed him, racing across the mass of musketeers, flickering to Tréville. Some thought Porthos slow, but Tréville knew better than that. He had his father's sharp wit, coupled with his mother's kind heart. He was assessing how best to assist his friend.

"Porthos," Tréville called, beckoning him over.

Porthos' whole face lit up. He slid off the bench in an instant. It warmed Tréville to see Porthos so eager to follow his command and be by his side. Undeserved, but comforting.

Where Athos stepped around their comrades, Porthos pushed straight through. His eyes rarely left Athos' back as he steadily gained on his friend. Finally, he grabbed Athos' shoulder and gave it a good squeeze. One corner of Athos' mouth twitched upwards. Porthos grinned from ear to ear.

The humanity gave Tréville hope. He set his jaw and tightened his fists. He didn't want to do this.

"Aramis," he called, nonetheless.

He almost hoped that the third of his Inseparables wouldn't hear. He was so caught up in conversation, men laughing all around him. Maybe he wouldn't hear, wouldn't get up, wouldn't come, wouldn't follow him in this.

But Aramis swivelled in his seat. He seemed surprised to see his friends already nearly at Tréville's side and gave him a quick wave before saying something to the others. The men roared with laughter at the comment he made. Someone proposed a toast and they all raised their cups as he stood. Aramis gave them a mock salute and a fanciful bow, then left them to clamour among themselves as he sauntered away.

Tréville sighed. He didn't want this, didn't want Aramis to come. He didn't want to ruin this hard-won confidence, to bring this wonderful man to his knees once more. But he needed him. He shouldn't. Not after all Aramis had been through. He watched Aramis smile and exchange some witty comment with a few men, never stopping his progress. Hadn't that man suffered enough? Hadn't _he_ made him suffer enough? But there he was. Still smiling. Still following the command of the one who'd very nearly sent him to his death.

"Captain." Porthos grinned at him. Kindness and wit, the son he'd never have. Tréville smiled back at him with some difficulty.

"Captain Tréville, how may we be of service?" Athos tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brows. He'd learned so much of command over the past year. Enough to understand how serious a matter had to be to make him call them now.

It could have waited, of course. He could have told them in the morning. He should have. Shouldn't have ruined their night. They deserved this celebration, had earned the victory with their blood and tears. They didn't need this tonight, but he did.

"You haven't had a single drop to drink." Aramis grimaced and shook his head. "You've worked so hard for this!"

Porthos chuckled at his fervour and cuffed him in the arm, but Tréville caught the even look behind Aramis' easy merriment. They had all worked hard to end this siege. He had worked as hard as he could for Aramis' cause as well, attempted to make it easier for the Protestants, to advocate for benevolence. Aramis knew that much, even if he had no idea why he was owed such a debt.

A debt Tréville was making even greater with this request.

"I need you to ride with me after muster tomorrow morning," he said. Heads nodded all around.

"We'll be ready," Athos said. As taciturn as he was, they let him speak for them.

"Where are we going?" Aramis asked.

Tréville cleared his throat. Still time to reconsider.

"The king wants to hold a victory parade and the cardinal will celebrate mass on All Saints Day in La Rochelle." He didn't breathe, didn't look up, simply ploughed on ahead before he thought better of it. "We need to make sure the route is secure, that there isn't anyone hiding in the city who could pose a danger to his majesty."

"Of course," Porthos said. Loyal Porthos. Always there. He didn't deserve him.

Tréville didn't dare to look at Aramis, didn't want to see if he'd paled, if he was afraid, as afraid as all of them should be.

"I need your eyes," he said. "I need you there. You've been in the city recently."

That was his excuse. It wasn't a bad one. But really, they'd be able to find a church without his help. His men would be fine, but he wouldn't. Aramis was the reason Tréville was alive, his reason to keep going after the massacre in Savoy. And there he was, once again, desperately clinging to his one survivor.

 _And I saw that the Lamb had opened one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures, as it were the voice of thunder, saying: Come, and see._

He'd hoped to slip away quietly the next morning, but of course Richelieu had other plans. Everything had to be a big procession with him. Eight men had come from the city the previous day, the mayor and seven aldermen. Richelieu had dragged them outside that morning, shivering in the crisp autumn air, to see off the musketeers.

Most of the men sat. Tréville was glad to see that small concession made to their emaciated state. The mayor, tall and impossibly slim, stood in conversation with Aramis. Porthos eyed them carefully but didn't intervene. That man might have been Aramis' captor once, but the past three months had taken their toll. He was far from threatening with his hollow cheeks and spindly arms. The relief was clear on his face, the siege finally brought to an end when he knelt in front of the king less than a day ago.

With a swish of his cloak and an imperious gesture to the underling who was attempting to follow him, Richelieu appeared at Tréville's side. Athos and Aramis were gathering instructions from the Rochellaise and Porthos held the horses, leaving Tréville alone to face whatever the cardinal wanted to discuss.

Richelieu led him a few steps away from the others and leaned in close, keeping his voice low.

"Stay, Jean." He pursed his lips. "Let your men ride alone."

"No."

Richelieu shook his head at the brusque reply. "We could hold counsel, an important matter… nobody would think any less of you."

Tréville crossed his arms. "My place is with my men."

"So little trust in your precious musketeers?" Richelieu sneered. He failed to acknowledge he'd lost that same argument the previous night.

"So little desire to let them come to harm." Tréville felt himself flush as his heart beat faster.

Richelieu mimicked his posture. "The king needs you here."

"The king is in good hands, the best," Tréville said. He looked at Richelieu, unsure what was wrong. There had been no intelligence to suggest that the king was in any danger. Certainly not now that the matter of La Rochelle had been resolved peacefully and to everyone's satisfaction. And yet, Richelieu seemed unduly agitated, his lips now pressed into a thin white line.

"Armand?" Tréville prompted.

"Fine. Have it your way." Richelieu turned on his heel, his back taut as a bowstring. "Get your impertinent head blown to pieces for nothing."

"Nothing? This is not…" Tréville scratched his cheek. Richelieu was once again surrounded by his men. He had apparently decided the best thing was to get it over with quickly and all but shooed the musketeers onto their horses.

Tréville glowered at him as they rode off. This unguarded display of emotion was not their usual approach. He brushed those thoughts aside as they rode towards the city, through the no man's land cluttered with fallen leaves and yellowed grass. He had a task to focus on and men to protect.

The gate was thrown wide for them. They entered the city without pause, the clatter of their horses' hooves echoing as they passed through the barbican. After all this trouble, riding into La Rochelle was so easy.

"No portcullis." Athos pointed above their heads. "Though we should have the gate pulled from its hinges to avoid being cut off."

Tréville made no reply. He was glad Athos thought of such things, but in that moment he couldn't speak. He slumped in his saddle. More than a year after the start of the siege, they were finally in La Rochelle, halting their horses in the small cobbled square beyond the gate.

They should move, should inspect the gate and scale the wall, but for a moment they were silent. There were people, but not nearly enough for such a large city. Deep-set eyes stared at them from gaunt faces. None of them said a word. If they were afraid of these hostile soldiers, none of them showed their fear, nor indeed any other reaction. Their faces were blank as if they were beyond such simple emotions.

 _And there went out a horse that was red: and to him that sat thereon, it was given that he should take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another, and a great sword was given to him._

Tréville dismounted and approached a group of men by the wall. He held out his empty hands to show them he came in peace.

"Peace, Aramis," he breathed, noticing the man shift in his seat so he could aim his pistols at the Huguenots. An unnecessary precaution. None of these men looked strong enough to attack.

"We wish you no harm," he said out loud.

They did not answer. What was there to say? They would hardly welcome him, the conqueror, to their city. He knew he wouldn't have, had their roles been reversed. Catholic or Protestant, they were all soldiers and none of them liked the taste of defeat.

"And we can cause you none." One of the men stepped forward, his head held high.

Tréville nodded briefly at the words. He could respect courage and honesty in anyone.

"Captain Tréville of the king's musketeers." He held out his hand.

The Huguenot considered him critically. "Lieutenant Ribault of the La Rochelle guard."

His hair was still dark and his eyes sharp, but his skin was papery, stretched over prominent cheekbones. It was impossible to guess his age. As they shook hands, Tréville felt like Ribault's bones were grinding against each other. While he shook firmly, his fingers were as delicate as glass. Where the sleeve of his shirt rode up, the two bones of his forearm were clearly visible. His clothes hung loosely on his frame.

None of the others looked any better. Tréville nodded to them. "You have earned our respect. We could not breach your defences."

And yet he was here as the victor and they were clearly cautious, though none of them betrayed any sign of fear. They did not sneer at him but Tréville felt like they wanted to. He couldn't begrudge them that.

"My men and I will ride through the city and may inspect some parts more closely," he said, turning again to Ribault. "You have my word that no harm will be done and nothing will be taken."

"We shall not hinder you," Ribault said. "And as for taking—you cannot take what isn't here."

He stood tall, unwilling to be cowed even in defeat. A good soldier, a good musketeer maybe if only life had brought them together under different circumstances.

"You have protected your city well," Tréville said. "And even now you have laid down your weapons, it shall be protected. Discipline is strict in the royal camp."

"We pray that is true, but—" Ribault's voice faltered as he swayed on the spot.

Tréville reached out to steady him with a hand to the shoulder and for a moment the Huguenot leaned into it. He seemed to weigh no more than a child.

"How old are you?" Tréville asked as they stood close to each other.

Ribault shrugged off his hand and stood up straight once more. "Twenty-eight," he said. "I'll have the remainder of the guard alerted to your presence. They'll know to help you if you require assistance."

He turned away, ordering several of his men to different parts of the city.

Twenty-eight. The same age as Porthos. And yet his body was that of an old man, spindly legs barely able to hold him upright. None of his men looked any better. The ones now walking away moved in the slow, pained shuffle of the elderly.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said. "You do your duty with great dignity."

Because dignity was the only thing they had left him. Tréville wished he could give more than empty compliments. His heart cried out for these men who could, if fate had decreed another course, well have been his. They were all soldiers doing their duty on one side or the other. This time his men were the ones who were well-fed and equipped. He wished he could march these guards straight to Serge and a big kettle of soup, but he doubted they'd be able to walk that far. Men in their prime, unable to make their own way across a few fields. War had been his life's work, but sometimes he despised it.

He mounted his horse again and gestured to Athos.

"Lead the way." He was afraid more words would betray the roughness of his voice.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Aramis still held his pistol in his hand.

 _And behold a black horse, and he that sat on him had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard as it were a voice in the midst of the four living creatures, saying: Two pounds of wheat for a penny, and thrice two pounds of barley for a penny, and see thou hurt not the wine and the oil._

As they rode, Aramis quietly pointed out the perches he would occupy as a sniper to get the best view of the main road. Tréville welcomed the confirmation that he'd been right to take Aramis. He wasn't needlessly traumatising the poor man even more after his recent captivity. They'd make sure to have men stationed in these spots to thwart any attempt on the king's life, or indeed the cardinal's.

For all Richelieu's apprehension, they encountered no resistance. The city was silent, not a single barking dog to be heard, nor any whisper in a doorway. Even the ever-present seagulls had apparently learned to avoid La Rochelle. The autumn wind did not drive any leaves through the roads, highlighting the complete lack of trees and bushes. They had probably been cut down for firewood long ago. Not even roots remained and Tréville wondered if those had been used for nourishment.

They reached a market square and his men instinctively spread out to make themselves less of a target in the vast open space. Hands on their guns they scanned the many doors and windows of the surrounding houses, trying to catch the glint of a gun or the flicker of a fuse, but spotting nothing.

Suddenly, Porthos urged his horse forward, towards a well at the other end of the square where several women and children stood. For a moment they all stiffened in their saddles, training their weapons on the group.

The women snatched any children they weren't carrying and hid them behind their skirts, staring fearfully at what must to them be terrifying enemies. Tréville never liked this. Porthos dismounted and walked towards the group. He smiled and spoke to them in a low voice. He looked calm, but Tréville was certain Porthos disliked this just as much as he did. While women and children had their place in war and were invaluable to the success of any army, he hated seeing them the victims of violence. They should be kept far from the front lines but the impact on them was of course the main weapon of siege warfare.

Aramis' eyes raced around the square and along the rows of empty windows. Tréville knew he should be on the lookout too, but he kept glancing at Porthos and the women. Porthos took the heavy bucket and lowered it into the well, then quickly wound it back up, water sloshing over the rim. Easy work for a strong man, but the strain would have been severe for these women. It was impossible to ignore how skeletal they all were. Their dresses threatened to slide off their shoulders. The arms and legs of the children were nothing but sticks, so thin a gust of wind might snap them.

The children were quiet, apathetic. They showed no reaction to the presence of four strange men. Children in Paris would always run. Sometimes towards them, squealing with excitement, and other times away from them in fear. These children didn't. After all these months of hunger, would they be able to run if they tried? Tréville shivered. A year was a very long time for ones as small as these. Some of them would never have known freedom. Little bundles in their mothers' arms. Born into a failing city, a failed religion.

"But he got his unconditional surrender," Aramis murmured, dragging Tréville from his thoughts.

The satisfaction of the Huguenots begging for mercy. Stroking Richelieu's ego for the price of a few thousand ordinary lives. How many had been lost to hunger already? For every emaciated child there must have been others who weren't so lucky.

"We need to do something for these people," Athos hissed. "These are young children, for heaven's sake."

Tréville actually heard Aramis grind his teeth before he replied, voice barely above a whisper.

"It's too late."

"We could reroute supplies," Athos said. He knew, of course, that stores were low and supplies hard to get by, but Tréville admired his tenacity. "If we put the men on half-rations…"

"It's too late," Aramis repeated. "There's nothing we or anyone can do for them now."

Athos breathed out a small "oh" as the meaning of Aramis' words sunk in. Tréville's heart hurt for him, for that realisation that all soldiers had to face eventually. He himself had been much more experienced when he first understood how significant the impact of their actions and politics truly was on civilians.

"We should tell Porthos that." Athos bit his lips as they watched Porthos talk to the mothers, steadying them as they drank, and stroking the bony heads of their children. The image burned itself onto Tréville's eyes like a branding iron.

"He knows…" Aramis' hollow voice echoed in Tréville's ears. Porthos knew… He knew because he had been there. Because 28 years ago Tréville had condemned him to this, had abandoned a mother and child to hunger and misery. If Richelieu knew that he had happily gambled two lives for some young man's vanity, he'd denounce him as a hypocrite.

Tréville's throat constricted as he watched the one whose life hadn't been lost in his sick wager. He tightened his hands on the reins, making his horse snort impatiently. He couldn't let his emotions overwhelm him here. He had a task to complete and three men to protect.

He watched Porthos, tall, strong, intelligent Porthos, and told himself that it had worked out in the end, that Marie-Cessette would be proud of the man her son had become. Maybe even of the role that he… no, he shouldn't use that as his absolution. But she would be proud of Porthos, he decided, watching him cradle a small boy's head in his broad palm. A boy as sickly and thin as he might have been, talking to a mother who might well share Marie-Cessette's fate soon. And Porthos, for all his skill and kindness, would never make what Tréville had done justifiable.

"We should move on," Aramis said.

With obvious effort, Porthos tore himself away from the women and children. As he turned around, Tréville could see the tears running down his face. He was oddly relieved, like his own pain had finally found an outlet, however remote. He watched Athos and Aramis reach out for their brother, tiny reassuring touches that made them the family Porthos had been deprived of for so long.

 _And behold a white horse, and he that sat on him had a bow, and there was a crown given him, and he went forth conquering that he might conquer._

Porthos' sniffles accompanied them as they rode. Athos' face did not betray any emotion, but Aramis was visibly upset. Tréville urged his horse on. Riding in front of them was easier. He never should have asked Aramis to come. He'd known what it would be like. It wasn't his first siege. Nor was it Aramis'. He knew that and he'd still made him come. After everything La Rochelle had already thrown his way.

"I was held there," Aramis said, pointing towards a tall, forbidding wall of light stone. "Beyond that is the town hall."

"What about the mayor, Guiton?" Athos asked. "Did you ask about his family?"

"Yes," Aramis said. "All five daughters still alive, thank God. He told me this morning."

"I'm glad." Porthos blew his nose. "Sorry… I got emotional."

"We all did," Athos said although he didn't look it. He'd developed a rare skill to give voice to Tréville's thoughts.

A guardsman showed them the stairs to the top of the wall. There was no sign of recent activity on the town hall's wall now, but of course they would have men up there during the king's visit to La Rochelle. Aramis pointed out a few spots with a particularly good view. Porthos made plans to barricade the stairs so nobody could follow their soldiers. Nobody wanted to risk any lives after victory had already been declared.

Tréville watched them revolve around each other. They didn't stop, didn't pay any less attention to their tasks, but they took every opportunity to show their support. Small touches and kind words of reassurance mingled with their duties. And even though Tréville wasn't part of their circle, he was comforted and encouraged by it. Seeing this city on its deathbed was terrible, but it wasn't an insurmountable horror, not with these three by his side. Together, they'd get through it. Together, they had rescued Aramis from the sea and nursed Porthos back to health. Together, they'd make it through this.

They drew closer to the church Richelieu was targeting for his mass. It wasn't badly situated, with enough space around to guide the king in safely. The church itself was fairly small, which would cause all manner of discontent among the men who couldn't get in but was helpful for security purposes. Easier to control a smaller space and fewer people.

In the manner of Protestants, the building was austere, without any statures or adornments. Whatever furnishings there might have been had been removed. More fire wood? While they would have to bring in seats for the king and his retinue, the bare space was another welcome discovery. Less nooks and crannies for would-be-assassins to hide in.

"See if you can find any side doors," Tréville said. "Athos to the left, Porthos, right-hand side, Aramis, have a look around the apse."

They scattered while Tréville examined the main door more closely. A sturdy bolt, but no metal reinforcements. No evidence of any hidden spaces in the narthex.

"Captain Tréville," Athos called. Tréville hurried over to him, half-way down the nave, and together they climbed a narrow spiral staircase.

Suddenly, a shout echoed through the empty church.

"Aramis." Athos cursed. Instead of going back down he sprang forward, up onto a gallery that ran the length of the nave.

Tréville followed, both of them scanning their surroundings with their pistols. The gallery gave them a view of the whole church. Below them, Porthos sprinted to the altar. He reached Aramis at the same time their eyes did.

Aramis was on the floor behind the altar, kneeling amidst several prone people in black robes. They watched him scoot from one figure to the next, two, three, four of them, at the same time trying to sense any impending attack.

"All dead," Aramis shouted and Tréville hated his own sigh of relief.

They searched the gallery and finished their round of the church before joining Porthos and Aramis. The two of them had laid out the four bodies next to each other. Aramis draped their clothes over wounds and wiped blood from their faces with his handkerchief. Not that it made much of a difference. The blood stood in great pools on the light stone, dried and congealed to a tar-like substance.

"Lord have mercy on their souls," Tréville said. "What happened here?"

It was as bloody a scene as he had ever seen and yet there were no footsteps leading away from it, no splashes of blood anywhere else. The horror was contained to this sheltered space behind the altar, which explained why they had seen nothing when they entered the church.

Aramis held up a small dagger, its blade and hilt encrusted with blood.

"They took their own lives," he said.

His words echoed in the empty building. They multiplied in the silence, repeating his verdict.

"But, aren't they…" Athos gestured at the men's severe black robes. "Priests or whatever it is they call them?"

"Pastors, yes," Aramis said. Of course. They wore white collars, though very little remained white beneath the blood.

"Isn't that sin for them as well?" Porthos asked. "You know to… you aren't supposed to take your own life."

Athos looked down at his feet as if he was trying to memorise the dirt on his boots. Aramis crossed himself. And Tréville knew… He'd had that conversation with both of them, had told them not to. For Aramis at least the sinfulness of suicide carried some weight, but Athos would probably have laughed in his face had it not been for his good manners.

"Better to die in sin than to live for whatever we bring," Aramis said. Tréville had rarely heard him so bitter.

Tréville sighed, remembering another time, another city. "It happens sometimes," he said. "The threat of falling into enemy hands is too much to bear."

Athos nodded. "Like the Jews of Masada."

"An ancient fortress in Judaea," Tréville said, mostly for Porthos' benefit. "Occupied by Jewish rebels. When the Romans finally took it, they discovered they had all killed themselves."

"They burned the whole town," Athos added. "Only left the storage buildings intact. Wanted to show that they could have lived but chose not to if life was to bend the knee to some worldly lord."

Porthos shook his head, his eyes once again bright with tears. "Those poor souls. And here they didn't even have the food."

"They still got to choose," Aramis said. "The leaders in Masada saw it as a favour from God that they could die brave and free. Not by…"

His voice trailed off and immediately his brothers' hands were on his shoulders.

"Not this time," Athos said.

"They couldn't have known." Aramis leaned into their touch.

Aramis was his survivor, his hope and mercy, and yet Tréville knew so little about him. There was a past here that he didn't know, some earlier trauma that went beyond Savoy. Something that made La Rochelle even worse than he'd known. Part of him hated his selfish decision to take his most trusted men without any concern for their wellbeing, but another part thrilled at their readiness to follow him, despite the yokes they all carried.

"We should say a few words for these unfortunate men," he said. Words for the dead and the living. He cleared his throat. He wasn't good at this. It was part of his position as captain, of course, but usually he knew the deceased and could say something personal. There was no preacher lost on him. But he wanted to do something that honoured these pastors and at the same time told his men that he hoped they'd never be in so desperate a situation.

" _Dominus regit me, et nihil mihi deerit_ ," Aramis prayed. Psalm 22, a natural choice. For him at least.

Then Aramis paused, coughed, and started again.

"The Lord guides me and I don't lack anything. He leads me to pastures and to refreshing waters."

Aramis' eyes darted around their small circle. Tréville bowed his head and folded his hands. He prayed so rarely these days; he assumed a psalm in the wrong language would hardly worsen his standing with the Lord.

"He restores my soul," Aramis continued, emboldened by their silent approval. "He guides me in the paths of righteousness for his name."

Who walked the paths of righteousness here? As they stood there, looking at the dead bodies of undoubtedly pious men, it did not feel like they had any claim to righteousness.

"For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death…" Aramis paused. Tréville wasn't sure if he was struggling to translate the next line or if he was struggling with the subject matter. Death had certainly cast his shadow onto them.

"I will not be afraid of evil things… when you are with me." Aramis' sonorous voice filled the church in defiance. "Your rod and your staff, they comfort me."

And although Tréville struggled to see God in any of this, Aramis' words comforted him.

"He prepares my table against those who… those who trial me." Aramis huffed, maybe in annoyance at his clumsy translation. "He pours oil on my head and fill up my cup… my cup, how glorious it is."

Tréville marvelled at his command of Latin and his ability to translate on the spot what Protestants spent many years poring over.

"And your mercy will follow me all days of my life."

God, where was that mercy now? Was it truly mercy that these men had been able to choose their own deaths? Was that the mercy his own men would one day pray for? Such was the life of the soldier, more often than not, but this day held particularly stark reminders of that truth.

"And I may dwell in the house of the Lord for length of days."

Tréville lifted his eyes up the stone pillars and into the wooden roof. The house of the Lord. And four men had indeed lived out the length of their days in it.

"Amen," Tréville said along with Aramis. To his surprise, all four of their voices rang out.

He was staring at Athos before he could stop himself. In all their time together, through all the services neither one of them had been able to avoid, he had never heard him say that word. Athos inclined his head slightly to acknowledge his disbelief.

Porthos rubbed his eyes. "That was…" His voice broke.

"Psalm 22," Athos said.

"It wasn't very—" Aramis started, but Porthos cut him off.

"It was beautiful. I never knew…"

How could he have known? _Dominus regit me,_ those words meant nothing to him. He must have heard them many times without knowing their significance. So many years without hearing of that heavenly guide. For all his own misgivings, Tréville pitied Porthos for not knowing Psalm 22. There was some comfort in religion yet. Aramis had just proven that.

Tréville tore himself away from his musings before they could lead down darker paths. They had a task to complete.

"Aramis, I want you to inspect the gallery," he said. "Determine how many men we'll need and where. You should probably be stationed up there tomorrow."

Another good, military reason to bring him here. Always let the best sniper pick his perch.

"Porthos, I doubt this can be cleaned, but maybe a rug…?" He trusted Porthos to find a solution for the dark stains on the floor. Even by Richelieu's standards celebrating mass standing in the blood of your enemies seemed rather macabre.

"I will ask a guard where we can bring the bodies," Athos said. "Nobody here will be able to carry them."

 _And behold a pale horse, and he that sat upon him, his name was Death, and hell followed him. And power was given to him over the four parts of the earth, to kill with sword, with famine, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth._

They carried the first two men out of the church. Athos pointed towards a squat round tower that he'd been told was where they could bring the dead. A few onlookers watched with bowed heads as they made their sorry procession through the streets. Nobody said a word. Tréville wondered if they were afraid to pray. What did it look like to them, four musketeers exiting their church with their dead pastors in their arms?

In death, bodies had that peculiar way of becoming heavier than they ever had been in life. The bodies were still stiff. They had not died too long ago. A day, maybe two. After they had learned of the surrender? Or when the intention was first announced? At what point did men make that decision? His eyes drifted towards Athos, Aramis… He'd carried Aramis after Savoy. Would have carried him if… The weight in his arms became Aramis, became Athos when he had first joined and been so desperate for death.

The stiffness did not make them any easier to carry. Tréville was not in the least bit upset that Porthos had decided to partner with him, hoisting the dead man's upper body up so easily that Tréville had nothing much to do other than to ensure the pastor's feet didn't drag in the dirt.

Following Athos and Aramis, they manoeuvred their way up a short, inclining lane that ended in a well-trodden path up to the tower. It seemed an odd place to leave the dead, but then again morgues did not tend to be right on the market square. He should probably count his blessings that this place wasn't too far out of their way. They still had to explore alternative ways to and from the church in case an escape became necessary. Best to station men on several routes. Expect the unexpected.

The stench of rot and decay hit him like a fist to the face. Athos hesitated. Aramis' shoulders jerked as if he was gagging. They stopped at the doorway into the tower. There was no actual door. In fact, the whole structure had an air of neglect. Some bricks had tumbled to the ground and an adjacent wall was half collapsed. Maybe a cannon strike early on in the siege?

Athos gently lowered the feet he carried and drew his sword and pistol. They had not encountered any hostilities so far, but this would be the perfect location for royal troops to be lost to a hidden assassin.

Pistol and sword at the ready, Athos stepped into the tower. The door led into a short, curved corridor. It was impossible for them to see his progress. All of them shifted their burdens to put their hands on their pistols. The cold, smooth metal was a reassuring weight in Tréville's palm. At the slightest sound from Athos, they'd be ready.

But Athos was silent.

They listened so intently that Tréville could hear his own heartbeat. Still no sound from Athos. He did not want to rush him. There might be several rooms to search, but at the same time…

"Athos?" He tried to not sound worried. Athos knew how to look out for himself. At the very least they would have heard a struggle if…

"Coming." Athos' voice was muffled, but a moment later they could hear his slow steps approaching. Only his steps. Nobody was following him or had captured him. But they did not relinquish their hold on their weapons. One never knew.

"All clear." Athos nodded. "I'll take them myself."

He made to lift the first man over his shoulder.

"Don't be silly," Porthos said. "We'll all help."

Athos stood up straight, his face unreadable. "I do believe it better if I go on by myself. It is a rather gruesome scene in there."

Gruesome? Tréville stared at him trying to decipher what he meant.

"It's a morgue," he said. "We've all been in those."

Athos kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, grinding bone on bone until his pale skin shone red.

"It's somewhat more than a morgue in there."

Tréville gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. "We'll go together," he decided.

Athos flexed his fingers, then drew them into fists. "I'd rather—"

"Athos." He didn't give these three direct orders very often, but he'd make this one if he had to.

Athos' shoulders slumped. "Just us," he said with a long exhale.

"Nah," Porthos said, voice low and steady. He broadened his stance and set his jaw.

Athos frowned at his feet. His throat bobbed with a great swallow.

"Please don't," he said to Aramis. "I know you can but… don't do this to yourself. There's no need."

A chill raced down Tréville's spine. What was in that tower?

"Aramis, stay here. As a look out. We don't want to be cut off in case…" Athos looked pained.

Aramis shook his head. "Better to see reality than to dream of the horrors my mind will conjure to fill the blank."

He lifted the dead man up by the shoulders and motioned for Athos to pick up the feet again.

"I'm sorry," Athos mouthed, catching Tréville's eye before he moved. It took Tréville a moment to realise what he was seeing on Athos' face. Fear. Athos was scared.

Tréville's mouth went dry. He quickened his pace to stay as close to Aramis as he could. Athos was not prone to exaggeration so if he was so affected, it was only reasonable to fear the worst with Aramis. Aramis was a more than capable soldier, but he still carried deep wounds in his soul, wounds Tréville himself had hewn. This time, he'd be there if Aramis needed help.

"Oh God," Aramis said.

Tréville, walking backwards, collided with his back. He spun around, but not before seeing Porthos' mouth fall open. The dead pastor's feet dropped from Tréville's grasp as his hands went slack. He stumbled back, tripped over the corpse, and crashed hard into the rough brick wall.

"Oh God," Aramis repeated. "Oh God, oh God, oh God…"

He pressed a fist to his mouth, but his muffled voice continued its bewildered chant. His shock echoed Tréville's disbelief.

The tower had been ruined, its roof and upper floors destroyed to leave it open to the sky. They had stepped out onto a narrow balcony, with steps leading down to what would once have been a basement. Now there was no basement, no floor, no ceiling. Nothing but a vast round space filled with…

Oh God…

Bodies.

Dead men, women, and children.

Dozens, hundreds of them.

The entire tower had been filled.

Oh God.

He clutched his stomach, pressing both arms against it to try and suppress the nausea. Behind him, Porthos lost that fight. And Aramis… Aramis stood rooted to the spot, petrified, his fist still pressed to his lips. Tears were streaming down his face as Athos was trying in vain to get him to look away, but he made no sound.

Bile burned the back of Tréville's throat as he surveyed the scene. Closer to them were newer bodies, a day, a week old maybe. Further back lay older ones, rotting flesh hanging from their bony arms. He swallowed rapidly. He had to hold on, had to cling to any shred of control he could capture. He was their captain. These men looked to him for leadership. He'd failed Porthos before, had failed Aramis, he couldn't…

All these dead bodies… The last time he had seen bodies left to rot like this, had been at Savoy. That day still haunted him, but those twenty men were so few compared to this. Oh God, how many people lay here?

A crow rose from the far end of the tower, cawing loudly.

Tréville's knees buckled. He slid down the wall.

Oh God.

The crows.

He blindly reached for a stone and threw it at the birds. Leave him, leave the dead alone. They couldn't… He covered his face with his hands.

Mocking caws multiplied in his head as they rose into the air. Laughing at him and his powerlessness.

No.

He dragged his hands away.

Look at it.

This wasn't about him. He had to listen to Porthos, sobbing so hard he was gasping for air. He had to look at Aramis, now on his knees, eyes squeezed shut, and mumbling fervent prayers.

They were here because of him. He'd led them here. Commanded them. Because he needed help. Because he needed them.

"There were what… 25,000 or 30,000 people in La Rochelle before the siege?" Athos asked. "We can do a census of the remaining population to gain an indicator for how many bodies we are dealing with. I doubt that asking for a list of the dead would be effective. Undoubtedly, entire families have been wiped out."

Tréville blinked at him, stunned by this eloquence.

"To prevent the spread of disease, we have to organise burials soon," Athos continued. "For these… cremation would be easiest. The walls look sturdy enough and without a roof or any wooden interior, they should withstand the flames."

Tréville shook his head. "Richelieu won't stand for it. It is a heathen practice."

"Good Catholic burials for the lot of them." Athos nodded. "Of course. We can mark out stretches of land outside the city walls and bring men in to dig pits. If we institute a shift system, nobody will be exposed to this for too long."

There he was, planning, strategizing, doing what he did best. His rational approach was calming. Tréville took a deep breath. He held out his arm and let Athos pull him to his feet.

"Our first priority is to give everyone a decent burial," Athos said.

Tréville nodded even though he didn't agree. His priorities were torn between his two men who were still on the ground. But Athos had that covered as well. He was already standing behind Aramis, talking to him softly with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Tréville turned to Porthos who was rubbing his streaming eyes with the heel of his hand. A small part of all the tears Tréville had missed in his early years. He patted Porthos' back. With a great hiccup, Porthos finally quietened and looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

When Tréville held out his hand, Porthos cradled it in his own, running his thumbs over his knuckles, rather than gripping it to pull himself to his feet.

They all stood there in an awkward circle, careful not to step on the two pastors. Tréville noticed that Athos had skilfully manoeuvred them so he was the only one facing the pit of corpses. While there was no way to forget it was there, only Athos had to look at it.

"Gentlemen," Athos said. "I will make more permanent arrangements as soon as possible, but for now let us leave all four of them here on the platform as unfortunately, they cannot remain in the church."

He looked at each of them in turn and nodded. "Once more and then you'll have to see no more of this place."

They went and fetched the other two bodies. Aramis said another short prayer and then they left the tower and returned to their horses. They explored the city for another hour and made plans to ensure the king's safety.

Finally, they rode back to the gate. Together. The steady rhythm of their horses' hooves was reassuring. Their presence on either side of him made Tréville feel calmer even though he knew they were on their way to face the men whose friends and family lay in that tower, as well as the architect of their destruction.

But they were here together. It steadied him. Because together, they could weather this.

 _I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held._ _And they cried with a loud voice, saying: How long, O Lord (holy and true) dost thou not judge and revenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?_

They were back the next day, at the head of Louis' victorious parade. A subdued affair, but it still felt too grand. Don't go, Richelieu had told him the day before. Don't go, Tréville had wanted to tell him as the parade assembled. At least there were no drums, no music or pageantry. The men marched in silence, the musketeers at the helm. Along the route, Aramis had stationed men on roofs and in windows, watching and guarding them from above. Tréville reminded himself of that. Aramis knew what he was doing. He trusted him. His men were safe and so were the king and the cardinal.

The residents of La Rochelle lined the streets. Richelieu's work. He'd sent the aldermen back with strict instructions on how to receive their victorious king. And what choice did they have? Emaciated bodies did their best to stand.

Louis had the decency to not wave, but he struggled to suppress a smile. He was the only one on horseback, Tréville and Porthos at his stallion's hindquarters, while Athos had a hand on the reins and Aramis both hands on his gun. The king felt safest with Aramis close. It was a good excuse for keeping Aramis here with them. Tréville could not bear the thought of him alone on some sniper's perch, couldn't bear to see these three separated that day.

Tréville caught Porthos' eyes across the horse's back and saw the horror reflected in them. Porthos understood the full magnitude of this human tragedy. Were the generals marching in front of them similarly affected? On their first excursion into the fallen city, did they see it for the mass grave it was? Richelieu had seen and understood. Tréville had gone with him before the parade, had shown him what they'd seen and had seen him dumbfounded by the sight of La Rochelle after the year-long siege.

The sanitised version they presented to the king now did not carry the same weight. Louis seemed untouched by the terror. And of course Tréville understood. The strategic significance of this victory could hardly be overstated. The Huguenot rebellion was broken, their threat to France all but banished.

For France, he reminded himself.

Louis' beaming face made his stomach clench. The king liked himself in that role. Louis the great. Louis the just. Louis the victorious. The commander in chief, the benevolent ruler. Of course Tréville understood. A decisive victory was essential after all the time and resources spent on this siege. This day cemented Louis' rule and his place in the history books. It took him not a step but a giant leap closer to his aim of a strong central government, a unified country, a force to be reckoned with on the global stage.

This day was for France.

And yet… the tears shining in Porthos' eyes… Aramis' stiff shoulders in front of him… Athos leading the horse like he had led them when the horror became too much… All three of them knew that no victory was worth the human cost paid at La Rochelle. And yet, here they were, following his command.

For France.

Reedy voices rose up into the crisp autumn air. A ghostly choir from beyond the grave. The residents of La Rochelle chanting their demanded praise:

"Long live the king who showed us mercy!"


End file.
